The Adventure of the Idle Hands
by SuperSonic21
Summary: There are certain rules in the game that Sherlock can't afford to break: the consequences will get slowly worse as it goes on. It's time for Sherlock to play his most dangerous - and manipulative - opponent ever. Third story in the Silver!Verse series.
1. Prologue

**_AN: WAIT! Have you read 'A Study In Silver' and 'The Gifted League' yet? No? Well, this is a threequel to those two (in that order), set in the Silver!Verse, so don't read it first or you'll be royally befuddled. _**

_**TO MY REGULARS (now I sound like a pub or something): welcome back! It's the first day of the year, and I'll start how I mean to go on. Sorry this is so short, I've got exams to revise for and ALL THE FEELINGS to feel over the new series of Sherlock. Something **_**had**_** to give. **_

_**Anyway, enjoy, and R&R if you like! - B. **_

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><p><strong>The Adventure of the Idle Hands<strong>

_March 28__th__, 2010. _

_Laughter and poison and the smell of vomit _

Consciousness wasn't something gained with a start, or panting, or sitting bolt upright: sweating, he'd allow for, but not an extreme amount. It was hardly relevant, anyway. He slept alone now; he slept alone always. Something _terrifying_. Terrifying, dangerous, and all-too enticing. Almost unavoidable, and uncertain in conclusion. Uncertainty was _terrifying_. There were many people who would have sworn blind that he was afraid of absolutely nothing, but when he saw gleaming black eyes question him from the darkness of his room, he felt like a child sure there were monsters in the dark.

_Trains and stars and the clink of a belt buckle _

This was because, as an adult, he had discovered that there _were_, in fact, monsters in the dark. They may not have been the looming creatures of his young imagination, but they were just as supernatural and infinitely more evil – and they had picked their target. He'd seen it. He had days, if that, to prevent all of this and more.

_Shouting and plans and the taste of chlorine in the air _

He had barely any time, and infuriatingly, his gift was one of the only things he couldn't control in life. The other being the monsters that hungered after those he sought to protect. He must act now, he decided. He picked up his phone, and called his assistant.

_Fade _

"Yes, Sir?" Her voice sounded bright and attentive, despite the fact that it was 2 a.m. He almost smiled at her loyalty and professionalism. She truly was near-indispensible.

_To _

"Alice," He paused, the remnants of the dream fading away, dissolving as if his conscious thoughts were a strong acid. The message behind them, however, was all too prominent. "You will find that Andrew West has been murdered. Compile a folder ready for my brother after he arrives back from Minsk,"  
>"Yes, sir,"<br>The conversation is over. Mycroft goes back to sleep. He doesn't dream again.

_Black._


	2. The Rules

_**AN: I am properly bad at remembering my disclaimers at the start of my stories. So, let's have them here!**_

DISCLAIMER: I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor do I own any of the characters. However, this _particular_ variation on the plot and this Universe are mine. This story is rated T for safety - there will be violence, language, and . . . Drug use - maybe. Watch this space.

**_Back to the note. Anyway, this could get very weird/dark very quick because, well, that's Jim! And also because after watching _A Scandal_ and its wonderfully trippy scenes/scene changes, I have been inspired. Again, not in this chapter, but watch this space. _**

**_I hope you like what I've done with the story!Read and review - B _**

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><p>"Another fight with Sarah?"<p>

Shrugging apathetically, John reached into the fridge and plucked a can of beer from it. Icy cold and surprisingly uncontaminated by the head that was dripping blood onto the perishables, it would do to soothe his troubles for tonight.

I don't know. She's a bit of a hypocrite, to be perfectly bloody honest.

"Oh?" Sherlock opened one of his eyes a crack, breaking the tableau of serenity that he'd keeping up pretty well until John had blundered in, anger positively radiating from him.

Yeah.

"Did she find out about your thing, then?" Sherlock asked in a relaxed and low voice, shutting his eyes again.

That's good, yeah – brilliant deduction.  
><em>I'm<em> not the enemy, John. And yes, it _was_ a deduction, actually.  
><em>She's <em>not the enemy either! We just had a bit of a fight over it.

Sherlock opened his eyes finally and leant up on his elbows, frowning at John, who slumped himself into his usual armchair idiosyncratically, and reached for the television remote. He paused, and Sherlock could practically feel the wave of _sharing the problem_ that was about to engulf him. He braced for impact. John sat back again, and Sherlock observed him trying to remain calm and level-headed.

"Seriously, she still wants me to sleep on the bloody sofa, and . . . !" He cut off again, trying to align his thoughts into something quick and easy for Sherlock to perceive clearly. He wondered how much the other man knew about relationship dynamics – not for the first time. He gave a large sigh, and gestured to forget it, reaching once more for the remote control.

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the sofa, and stared John pointedly in the eyes.  
>"You're making sacrifices for this relationship, and keeping it on her terms – hence the sofa – and, though you chose not to divulge your genetic abnormality to her, you have otherwise at least complied and been a satisfactory suitor, as indicated by the repeat dates and sickly messages on your phone,"<p>

He stood up, and moved towards the window, hands clasped behind his back. His blue silk dressing gown flailed about as he strode languidly towards the pane – his favourite pondering position. He hadn't had a case for weeks that he could really get his teeth into; this correlated precisely with the amount of time he had spent in his loungewear. He'd barely heard anything around him for days, either, because he'd been on a continuous nicotine-patch binge: listening all over London for something interesting for him to get stuck into.

But there was nothing. So he ignored the concept of leaving his flat, and played the violin with progressive anger and decreasing proficiency, brought on by his frustration and boredom. The problem at hand was a drop in the ocean; that is, if one could even call it a _problem_.

"However, when the true nature of your physiology came to light – I'm presuming by accident, it doesn't usually take much, and you chose not to tell her originally – she accused you of being dishonest with her and said she couldn't abide you if you insisted on hiding things such as this from her . . ." He paused, rubbing his face with one hand in thought, and shook his head, waving the idea away with one hand, "No, no – that's not the full story, is it? That's the cover,"

John was stunned to silence at Sherlock's compound deductions about the state of his relationship, and so Sherlock continued – he always loved to deduce aloud, instead of via thought:

"From what I have gauged, Sarah seems to be at ease around those with abilities – I suspected at one point that she may even be attracted to individuals such as you or I above others of a more menial persuasion . . ." He paused dramatically, turned around and held one hand in front of him, pointing at John with a sly look on his face.  
>"However, the gifts she has seen have all been incorporeal, hidden, or active – that is to say, activated at will. Yours-" He indicated John with a flourish "Is a passive and physical skill – which is, while fascinating from a scientific point of view, not incredibly attractive, nor is it conducive to keeping one's food in one's stomach sometimes," He pointed out more casually, turning back to the window and letting his darting eyes survey the street out of sheer boredom. Surveillance was usually below him: the realm of curtain-twitchers and Mycroft Holmes; all busybodies in general.<p>

"So, evidence," He clasped his hands behind his back once more as he concluded: "You called Sarah a hypocrite earlier because of her reaction after she found out about your ability. Inference: she was unable to cope with your abnormality, and thus overreacted to your dishonesty in an attempt to ruin the relationship,"

He looked over his shoulder, and suddenly had a biting suspicion nagging at him that he may have, in fact, gone too far.

John just shrugged, and took a swig of beer.

"At least I don't have to explain to you," He explained: "I don't think I could cope with that on top of this bloody night,"  
>"Quite," Sherlock replied, and leant his forehead against the glass, pressing his hands onto it and looking straight down dolefully. "I cannot believe I have been lowered to deducing and diagnosing your relationship problems, John. There has been too little crime of late. Trust the criminals of London," He hissed, fogging the glass. He stepped back, and wrote the word 'BORED' on the condensation.<p>

"I'd take offense, but I don't have the energy or the inclination to try to teach you how normal people react to things like that, so you're off the hook," John pointed out, and glugged down a sizeable amount of beer. They remained in silence for a few minutes, with John just mulling over his relationship, not evening switching on the television, and Sherlock busy forgetting his deductions already.

"Would you look at that, John . . ." He murmured to himself more than his companion. "Calm, quiet – peaceful . . . Isn't it _hateful_?" He whispered contemptuously.  
>John nodded in agreement, though he wasn't really listening.<p>

A light turned on in the house opposite the street. Sherlock's bored expression wavered, and he strained to see what was going on: the flats opposite were vacant at the moment, given that their owners were away on holiday in what he'd deduced as a make-or-break second honeymoon to the Bahamas. He gave it five years, at the most, for their relationship, if they survived this holiday, which was doubtful.

But it wasn't a light at all. Not a bulb, anyway: a neon light, in bright pink, in a tacky slanted font that you might find at an eighties-themed diner. Sherlock squinted, his eyebrows furrowing as well, as the sign came into focus slightly better:

He thought about it for about half a second, and his eyes widened.  
>It happened so slowly that he was afraid of being wrong, and afraid that he was panicking over nothing: but when he looked around, and everything was progressing in unreal time, artificially lethargic as it progressed, and he moved frustratingly slowly. He swept round, and leapt at John, flying for a second, the force of his body hitting him in the chest enough to topple the chair backwards.<p>

Then it happened, and it had obviously just been a matter of time, because that neon sign had said 'BOOM'.

Glass flew into the room, as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, shielding them from any rogue shards, as he clung to John's shoulder's desperately. They both cried out with the painful noise of the blast, and braced against the fallen chair that shielded them from the shards, they buried their heads in synchrony.

With an abstract ringing the only audible noise, John decided it best to check that no one was about to invade the apartment: as he knew it, an explosion could be a precursor to attack. His squadron had learned this the hard way all that time ago; it was five seconds ago, as he looked around at the shrapnel and debris that used to be their windows and a few bricks.

He pressed Sherlock's head down, and shouted into his ear to remain still. He didn't think he heard, but then dumbly realised that he was probably reading his mind: this was confirmed when the buried head nodded once, shielding its eyes from the myriad motes of harsh dust that flew from the air. John rubbed his eyes, and felt them go red raw almost instantly, but didn't really care. He moved cautiously towards the window, and checked the structural integrity of the floor with careful steps, ensuring their flat wouldn't fall down before he left Sherlock in it.

He ignored the pain in his legs from the few pieces of glass that had nicked them before Sherlock could bowl him over and behind the armchair, and forced his way out of the flat, coughing and spluttering. Mrs. Hudson was alright halfway up the stairs, fretting and whimpering and enquiring whether or not he was alright.

"What on Earth was that? Are you alright, dear? And Sherlock?" she exclaimed, and smoothed John's hair, brushing off the dust with tears in her frightened eyes.  
>"Don't worry about me, Sherlock's fine that I know of-"<br>"Oh of course, I always forget – you've got that thing, haven't you? With the healing," It wasn't must of a question, more of a self-reassurance in the wrong packaging.  
>"I – what? How did you –? Oh, never mind," John grumbled, and then turned back up the stairs, now that he'd ascertained that Mrs. Hudson was uninjured.<br>"Oh, nonsense! Of course I know, dear. I've washed enough of your clothes to figure it out, I'm not stupid, you know," She babbled, the anxiety making her talk even more, "And Sherlock's got the thoughts, too,"  
>"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's got the thoughts – um, if you wouldn't mind – could you call the police?"<br>"Oh, yes – sorry," She apologised hurriedly, and made her way shakily down the stairs from where she'd been following him like a lost puppy. John decided it didn't really matter if Mrs. Hudson knew about him and Sherlock. She barely left baker Street, and as she said, she wasn't stupid: she knew it was a secret.

Sherlock appeared at the front door, having deemed it safe for him to get up and walk around in bare feet, and met John with a board grin despite the dusty cuts on his feet:  
>"John!" He enthused. "I think we've got a new case . . ."<p>

* * *

><p>When John returned from the shower the following morning, having spent all night giving statements and being tended to by wholly unnecessary but well-meaning paramedics, he saw that they had managed to gain yet another visitor. Not a welcome one, either.<p>

It wasn't that John didn't like Mycroft; it was just that he was still a little wary after being kidnapped by him a few months back. He found that he tended to dislike people after that type of experience. Vehemently. But he decided to shelve it, because he was simply too tired to bare a grudge. He'd been fairly tired before this debacle, but now it was beyond a joke.

"Mycroft," He greeted Sherlock's brother lukewarmly, and Mycroft gave him a smile that John couldn't help feel was one hundred percent fabricated.  
>"John Watson. A pleasure. How is Sarah?" But after a pause, and looking John up and down, he added, "Ah. My apologies,"<br>He turned away, leaving John with an open mouth and a frown, wanting to complain, but cut off by the infantile conversation taking place in front of him.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock asked of his brother, an icy expression with devilish mockery in his eyes gracing his angular face. Mycroft's curling lip indicated that Sherlock had pried on purpose into unwelcome territory.  
>"Please, Sherlock. Can we dispense with the hatred and get down to business?"<br>"Whatever it is, I shan't be taking it. I won't even read your mind to find out what it is. That is precisely how incurious I am," Sherlock assured him.

Mycroft, who was retrieving a file from his prim, black leather briefcase for Sherlock gave his brother a condescending look. "You protest too much, dear brother,"  
>"On the contrary, I cannot protest enough. This is displayed by the fact that you are <em>still here<em>," Sherlock quipped back, gazing daggers into his sibling's back as he turned and handed John the file instead.

John missed the look the two brothers shared when Mycroft turned back to Sherlock; he missed the fact that he, for once, wasn't being included in one of Sherlock's telepathic conversations. He certainly missed that Sherlock was finding it quite hard to read Mycroft today.  
>He looked up. "Andrew West," Mycroft told him, as he continued to peruse the file of the same topic. "Known to his friends as 'Westy'. Found dead last night with a bashed in skull on a train line near Battersea,"<br>"And?" John prompted. It seemed both of the Holmes brother needed someone to spur them along at some point; John suspected this was Mycroft's reason for keeping 'Anthea' around most of the time.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, to which John opened his mouth, slightly confused:  
>"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just a simple homicide, would you?" He asked.<p>

Sherlock's rictus grin accompanied the repetitive action of applying rosin to his bow, and John let a smile pull at the corner of his own mouth because he was sure he'd said the right thing – but there was no confirmatory thought to accompany that grin. Sherlock was being very _quiet _in his head today.

"West was one of ours – MI6, and in possession of something of great value. A memory stick, containing plans that are of national importance. They have gone missing, presumably taken by the murderer. We'd like you both – for a fee – to find the plans and, if it coincides, the murderer,"

Sherlock yawned loudly, which Mycroft pointedly ignored, examining the end of his umbrella with feigned interest. John thought they were like children, each trying to one-up the other in terms of who would react the least to their foe's taunts.

"Sorry. We're very busy at the moment. A hell of a lot on. Unless you thought we'd just had the flat redecorated?" He asked lightly, though his obvious sarcasm was scathing. John almost winced on Mycroft's behalf, but the elder Holmes didn't flinch.  
>"This case doesn't concern you," He near snarled.<br>"It is our flat," John pointed out.  
>"But still not your case. You see," He continued, pushing the West case, "I'd investigate this case myself, but it requires a lot of . . ." He looked his younger brother up and down, and made a vaguely disgusted face, "<em>Legwork<em>. And what with the Korean elections coming up . . ." He trailed off, and Sherlock cocked his head to one side, eyes boring into Mycroft, whose expression still didn't falter.

Suddenly, the younger Holmes got up, and stood at the window – or rather, what was left where it had once been. He looked uncomfortable, to John, now that there wasn't anything to lean on; no glass to cool his hot head against. Nothing there.

"No thanks, Mycroft. And you'd better go now. The police are here . . . They need to talk to me about a letter . . ."

Mycroft, unfazed, left the room after giving John a handshake and a knowing look that said, 'Thanks for taking the case'.

* * *

><p>Face down; tilting his head up slowly, his palms spread against the carpet, leather gloves feeling the exact thickness of the material to judge, by the brand, how much time was needed to make an impression on the carpet. Exactly how long, these trainers had been here.<p>

"He's a bomber," John reminded him, and he froze. Why hadn't he thought of that? Fairly inconsequential in the scheme of things, but worth slight note on the basis of his own personal health.

He reached out a steady hand, peering down his nose and into the shoes –

Suddenly, there was a ringing sound. The iPhone, from the anonymous letter, with the woman's calligraphy on the front; the bohemian stationary – it rang insistently at him. The iPhone was an exact replica of the one owned by the recovering amnesiac Jennifer Wilson, but with a shining silver case. He knew it wasn't the same phone, because there were absolutely no memories on it when he touched it: like it was being . . . _shielded_.

This had to be an opponent who truly wanted to challenge Sherlock; an opponent who wanted to match him case for case. The words of Jefferson Hope rang through his ears like the whining tinnitus he'd experienced late last night, after the bomb blast.

_My protector . . . You've got yourself a fan, Mr. Holmes. _

This _had_ to be it.

"It's yours," John informed him quietly, though he already knew. He'd gotten it out already, and murmured lightly to himself:  
>"The curtain rises . . ."<br>"What?" Lestrade replied. He'd almost forgotten about the presence of anyone but himself in the room. Himself, and the phone, who counted as a person, now: it was his opponent.  
>"I've been expecting this for some time," He murmured again, and before they could give him any warnings about phones as detonators, he'd answered the call, raising it to his ear like it weighed a ton.<p>

". . . Hello,"  
>"H – H . . . Hello, sw – sweetie," A woman. <em>The <em>woman? The one who'd written his name on the letter? No, it was forced, it was shaky; he thought he could hear crying. Something's afoot, most definitely.  
>"Who is this?" He asked coldly.<br>"Wh – what? You – don't, know?" She answered, pausing artificially to take in a shuddering and weeping breath. Sherlock closed his eyes, and tried to envision just what _might _be going on. He found it very hard indeed. He was down to only three ideas.

"Why are you crying?"  
>"I'm – I'm not crying! I'm t – typing and, this s – stupid bitch is, reading it out!" The woman uttered finally, and broke down into sobs at when she finished.<br>"Tell me where you are," Sherlock demanded.  
>"Uh – uh, Sh – Sherlock," The woman replied reluctantly, "You – you have to s – solve the c – case . . . eight – eight hours . . . Or I'm g – going to be so very . . . So very <em>naughty<em> . . ." She broke down again, and Sherlock opened his eyes at last, shifting with frustration.  
>"Can't you give me anything more? More data? – Who is this?" He persisted.<br>"Pay – pay attention to y – your phone . . . Goodbye, Sh- Sherlock-"

And then she was gone. Well, _she _was never really there, but now she was gone. It was his task to solve the case, and get her back.

Lestrade glared at him expectantly after the call, and he didn't disappoint:  
>"The bomber's got a woman. He spoke through her, and gave me eight hours to solve the case associated with these trainers, or else I presume he'll detonate a bomb and the woman will die," He told his colleagues grimly, and as bluntly as he could put it.<p>

The phone, however, was not finished with him.

It buzzed, and when he viewed the incoming text, his cardiac muscle felt frozen. It was a link, to his own blog: a comment on one of his less-well-attended articles on identifying the characteristics of 243 types of tobacco ash. He clicked the link eagerly, and scanned through the comment at once.  
>He had to go back and read it again for any detail that might give the bomber away; he also read it back due to sheer disbelief.<p>

_Dear Sherlock, _

_I'm your biggest fan! I'm sure you get this all the time, but I love your work! Especially the one about the cab driver I sent you. I bet you get fan mail like that all the time! _

_But your hands have been idle for a long time, Sherlock. So I've set aside a lot of money, and a lot of time, making work for you to do – and I've been thinking, too. I can't help but notice that you _do _cheat a little bit. Those powers of yours – they make life so dull, don't they? Easy. Predictable. Boring! _

_We're already playing a game, but there's now a rule you don't know about. _

_You aren't allowed to use your powers. At all – including when you're not even solving a case. If you use them, the consequences will get worse, ranging from humiliating to . . . Well, let's find out, shall we? How far, exactly, will I go?  
>How many times will you break the rules to solve a case, or save a life? I can't wait to find out! <em>

_Don't worry, my dear. This will be deleted after you've read it. We wouldn't want your police 'friends' finding out you really _are_ a freak! How embarrassing! Though you'll have been through worse than that before I'm done with you. _

_But above all, remember that I'm not an unfair man. Unless I get angry. Then you'll see just how unfair I can be - use your powers, and I'll know immediately. And I'll start being very naughty indeed. _

_Let's see how great Sherlock Holmes is without his little parlour trick, shall we? _

_Lots of love, _

_M xoxo_

Sherlock copied and pasted the comment into a note on his phone straight away to show John later, and in a flash, it was deleted. Whiter than usual, Sherlock strode away from the trainers, mumbling to Lestrade to have them sent to Bart's for him to analyse later.

The world seemed so much quieter now that his telepathy wasn't here: it was no longer on standby. It was off.  
>And everything seemed just a little bit lonelier, and way too <em>quiet<em> . . .  
>. . . He would test his opponent on his resolve later, in controlled conditions.<p>

_Let's see just how serious you are about our game._

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><p><em><strong>Let me know what you're thinking! - B. <strong>  
><em>


	3. The Test

_**AN: **__**I owe you a chapter. **_

_**I**_

_**O**_

_**U**_

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><p>"You're not <em>actually <em>going to test him on it, are you?"

Sherlock made no effort to respond to John's angry question: the man was protective to a fault, sometimes, and he was busy analysing a piece of mud from the trainers they'd been 'gifted' by the bomber. He'd already fully explained his intentions, and he wasn't repeating it.

"Sherlock, that's bloody insane! Did you not see what he said?" John asked incredulously, exasperation infecting his voice against his will to keep calm.  
>"Yes John, I <em>did<em> see because I can, in fact, read," Sherlock drawled, not even looking away from the sample. He noticed John grit his teeth and look down sharply, from the corner of his eyes; the man was clearly counting to ten in his head as a means of remaining patient and calm. Sherlock counted along with him, to see if this conclusion was correct.

Ten seconds later, John tried again:  
>"Fine. If you want to get yourself hurt-" The doctor began in a dark voice.<br>"Humiliated," Sherlock interrupted, "He said it would range from humiliating to worse, and so the first one will be mere humiliation. Indeed, we can't be sure without testing him that he isn't bluffing in the first place,"  
>"But what if it puts you in danger?" John shouted, his hands clenching into shaking fists. He's lost his calm again.<br>"I _said _dangerous, and here you are," Sherlock pointed out quietly.  
>"Yes, well, that hardly applies to this, does it?" John grumbled, folding his arms in an effort to hide the impotent trembling he experienced when he wasn't able to leap into action to protect something he cared about. <em>Someone <em>he cared about.

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to answer.

"Now then," He said brightly after a minute or so, setting the computer the task of identifying the sample he'd so far had no luck with, "I'm going to read these trainers. Hardly necessary, I already know the main facts, but I've got to do _something_, and hopefully it'll help me ID the victim," He added casually, reaching out to the much-dissected footwear.  
>"Don't you bloody dare - !" John warned, taking a step forward, but Sherlock halted him with a hand on his chest, not even looking away from the trainers.<br>"On the count of three," The consulting detective continued, "One, two-"  
>"Dammit Sherlock!" John tried to get in the way, but it was far too late.<br>"Three-"

It hardly matters anymore, anyway.

Sherlock stands upright, completely and utterly still, as the world spins silently around him slightly. He feels that, for once, he can see the world from above; feels he can see everything in 360 degrees, without even moving. He reaches out with a rigid hand, his face totally blank and drawn. Complete indifference adorns it, like a blanket of fresh white snow.

He has no opinion, no concerns; a totally dispassionate observer to the scene that is unfolding.

Footsteps echo nearby, _the executioner_, the hollow sounds resonating across the empty changing room. In the distance, the frantic splashing of someone trying desperately to fight for their life screams to anyone who will listen, and tears them away from their life to come and help – but not Sherlock. His earnest and dark eyes look down, as the footsteps' perpetrator emerges beside him.

Only a boy, and the boy has no face. It is totally blurred, as if Sherlock suddenly is experiencing the first blind spot he has known in his entire life. He's good with faces, but not this time. Not in _this_ time. Not in _this_ world.

He looks down, tracing the movement of the boy, many feet smaller than himself, as he runs past. He can't see Sherlock. He's but a ghost; sedate, and lethargic, and invisible.

The boy delves into his pocket, and retrieves a small silver key that corresponds neatly with the locker in front of him: he smiles rapturously, Sherlock can tell, though he can't see his face. He knows because of the hysterical giggles he issues into the otherwise unoccupied tiled room.

Sherlock twists his head, peering dully over the boy's shoulder as he scoops up a pair of trainers from the locker, and clutches them like a prize. He holds them lovingly: they are his prize or, at least, a representation of what he has achieved. His very first time.

He cradles them just for a second more, before shutting the locker quietly and slipping out. Sherlock walks after him, a few slow paces behind him at all times, completely unemotional as he lackadaisically witnesses paramedics pulling a young man, soaking wet and cyanotic, from the pool beside him. The boy he's been watching slips away giggling, running too fast for Sherlock's slow strides to catch up, and wholly unnoticed. Everything is so slow for Sherlock: slow motion, and apathetic thought processes and movements.

But then there's thesmall, sharp pain. He doesn't react properly, so sluggish are his movements, other than to look down and notice the puncture wound in his neck with equal ambivalence as to the chest compressions being performed on a boy who is long dead, and about to be pronounced so.

Sherlock blinks slowly, and then wretches, suddenly moving fast, squeezing his eyes shut, and nothing is slow anymore. Everything is hot, and fast, and he is sweating, and he isn't, he wasn't –

"_Poisoned_ – I've-"

Sherlock scrambled from his seat, falling onto the floor spectacularly, crawling for the empty waste paper basket at lightning speed, and vomiting.

"Sherlock?" John was at his side in a second, as the gangly detective held himself over his makeshift sick-bag, making noises so strained and disgusting that he could hardly blame Molly, who had nipped into the room briefly, for her disgusted and frightened utterance of _oh my God!_  
>"What's going on? What's wrong with Sherlock?" She demanded, looking surprised and a little annoyed at what was going on within the hospital's <em>sterile lab! <em>  
>"Poisoned – I've been - <em>I need<em>-"  
>He was interrupted by his own body, and John frowned despite his bafflement and anxiety over what was happening to his friend – how did Sherlock even have enough food to throw up this much? It must mostly be bile my now.<p>

"Who poisoned you?" John urged, and the detective shook his head in response:  
>"The boy – I don't –there was a, a puncture-" He pawed at his own neck briefly, scratching at the white skin and reddening it – though John could see nothing there – before continuing with his grim convulsions.<p>

"Sherlock, are you talking about – about in your . . . Vision?" John hissed gingerly into his ear, so that Molly didn't hear. Sherlock nodded vigorously.

John froze. This had to be the bomber. It just _had_ to – Sherlock hadn't been poisoned at all.  
>"Molly, get me some Prochlorperazine – be quick about it!" He shouted, gesturing for her to go. She dashed off, leaving someone – John didn't particularly care <em>who<em> right now – standing shocked in the doorway, watching them.

"No, I need the _antidote_ - !" Sherlock replied raggedly in complaint, clutching at John's shirt, tugging him close and looking with a crazed expression into his eyes. John saw something there that he didn't quite know, or understand; something was most definitely _not fine_ with Sherlock.

"Sherlock," He said firmly, and removed his hands gently from his shirt. "You've been here with me the entire time. You haven't been poisoned," He promised.  
>"Haven't been . . ." Sherlock echoed, his voice low and his face puzzled. Though he was still green and sweating, he slumped himself away from the bin, leaning on a unit of draws and blinking slowly. "I . . . Wasn't?" He asked, frowning and giving John a look such as he might give a policeman who said there was no apparent cause of death for a body.<br>"No, you've been here, with me, the entire time – remember?" He asked quietly, reiterating his point as if Sherlock would suddenly _snap out_ of his confusion with the repetition – alas, no such luck. The stranger seemed interested, like a motorist driving past the scene of a bloody accident with morbid fascination.

Then John worked out what was wrong with his eyes. Sherlock's silver eyes had grown dark, and distant; almost black around the iris, and the pupils painfully dilated. He only noticed when they changed back, and cursed himself for not paying more attention.

"John, I feel – nauseous," He explained in an uneven voice, one of his hands resting on the bin beside him, and the other running though and ruffling his own hair repeatedly.  
><em>No shit<em>, John thought to himself, but said nothing.

Molly returned sooner than they'd expected, and Sherlock gladly took the medication she'd brought him without thanking her; John thanked her profusely.

"What on Earth was all that about?" Molly asked, looking scared and clinging to the stranger, who looked equally concerned.  
>"Never mind. I think Sherlock might have contaminated himself with something. It was bound to happen one day, you know how he is – messy as anything," John lied. Sherlock snorted loudly despite himself, but John was heartened by his return to character, so ignored him: "- he'll be fine. And this is?"<br>He stood up from his position beside Sherlock and greeted them, though he was distracted, his eyes flickering to the consulting detective who'd now shut his eyes and was returning to his usual overly-pale skin tone.

"This is Jim – he works in IT," Molly told him, and though she was concerned, she was pleased to introduce her new boyfriend and wore a doting expression.  
>"Domestic bliss must suit you, Molly – you've put on five pounds since I last saw you," Sherlock interrupted her from his position on the floor, his eyes shut. <em>How<em> was he deducing that when his eyes were shut, and his powers were inaccessible? John was mortified. He suddenly remembered the first time he'd met Sherlock, in this very lab, and thought how impossible it would seem then that _this_ would be the nature of their relationship.

"Hello, Sherlock!" Called Jim, waving at the detective in a shy yet friendly way; the latter cracked an eyelid to peep over at the newcomer for half a second, before asserting his judgement:  
>"Gay," Sherlock rasped, and then gave a little cough, and winced. John thought he almost deserved the bile that was no doubt plaguing him at that moment.<p>

The awkward silence that followed was broken only by the beeping of the computer Sherlock had been working at.

"Sherlock's not feeling too good at the moment, _obviously_," John gave a half-laugh, and then asked Molly: "Would you get the word to Lestrade that he won't be taking this case?"  
>"No!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly jumping up, and <em>almost<em> knocking over the putrid bin.  
>"Sherlock!" Hissed John angrily, widening his eyes at him.<br>"No, John – the woman – the woman with the bomb will die. And besides, I've almost found cause of-"

He stopped deadly still in the middle of the sentence: "Oh . . . !"

_Just_ when John presumed he was beginning to return to normality, he swept out of the room, grabbing his coat and scarf and slipping them effortlessly on; leaving him to grab the trainers. John had no choice but to follow, bemused, and make his apologies to the equally baffled Molly and Jim. They looked at one another, and made their sheepish goodbyes, as John chased the sleuth down the hallway outside the morgue.

John didn't even get to call Sherlock back before the sleuth turned around, suddenly wide-eyed and obviously in the throes of realisation about the case.

"Clostridium botulinum!"  
>"Excuse me?" John asked, frowning and staring up at the other man like he was insane. Sherlock waved his concerned expression away, and proclaimed:<br>"Come, John – we must let the bomber know we've solved the case!"

* * *

><p>They went about their journey in silence, with the still-slightly-green Sherlock unable to sit still with what appeared to be excitement. Ever since the incident at the lab, he'd changed: he looked as if he'd been injected not with poison, as he'd insisted to John, but with the pure adrenaline that came with the <em>chase<em>. He suspected this was half the fun of the cases to his companion.

But it still worried Dr. Watson.

"Listen, are you . . ." He began, leaning over slightly towards Sherlock and speaking in hushed tones. But he couldn't really think of how to ask, so he nervously licked his lips, and just came out with it: "So, what happened? . . . _Please_ tell me, I want to help," He all but begged Sherlock to let him in, though he presumed it would yield almost no response. He wasn't proud, but he wasn't above begging, if Sherlock's health was on the line.

"I saw a pool – and a boy, but I couldn't see his face. The important thing is those trainers. I know who they belong to, I remembered, right before I-" He paused for a fraction of a second, , before taking in a breath and finishing: "Before it ended . . . There was a boy, John. His name was Carl Powers-"  
>"Carl . . . Carl Powers?" John asked, recognition sparking in his voice. Sherlock turned to look at him properly for the first time, no longer looking with feverish excitement and oscillating eyes out of the window. He looked cold and distant for a second, his calculating thoughts not producing the answers he expected, <em>for shame<em>.

"How do you know about that?" Sherlock asked calmly, yet darkly. John suddenly realised _he _was suddenly a suspect, but he didn't falter. After all, Sherlock knew a thing or two about being falsely accused of a murder you were trying to solve, and he'd work out that John wasn't behind it soon enough.

He gave a little cough, and couldn't bear to look into Sherlock's eyes, as he muttered quietly:  
>"You dream about it. A lot,"<p>

Sherlock said nothing, _did_ nothing; he didn't move, nor did he blink. However, when he looked, John discerned the slightest frown . . . Sherlock looked as if he were straining to understand. It hit the physician that Sherlock must be battling with himself _not _to read John's thoughts at that moment; it was hurting him to be so cut off, making him isolated.

He hated to think of what Sherlock might have been like before he met him; what he might have been like, he thought not for the first time, as a _child_. Or a teenager – whenever he started being able to do his _thing_, as he referred to it on occasion.

"When I . . . _Dream _-" Sherlock began to ask quietly, uncertainly, and it sounded alien coming from his mouth. John couldn't stand it, so he cut through it mercifully:  
>"You have a recurring nightmare where you took the wrong pill from the cabbie, and have Anterograde amnesia. In the dream, you're preoccupied by the Powers case; you tell me about it loads of times every day but forget every time . . . Is it significant?"<p>

Sherlock snorted bitterly, almost bringing himself to laugh fully, but not quite managing it. John hated the noise his leather gloves made as his fingers tightened, balling into fists that lay on his knees in useless frustrated reflection.  
>"My first, John," He replied darkly, staring at his shoes.<br>"Your – your . . . First?" This was very ambiguous. He presumed they were still talking about the case, which to Sherlock was solved, but he could never be sure.  
>"My first ever case, when I was sixteen. I don't know how much I told you in the dream, but it was always the shoes that I was preoccupied with. They weren't there, and I <em>knew<em> it was murder because they'd obviously been _taken_. In the vision I had – before I was . . . _Before_, I saw a boy of about fifteen – maybe older, he was very small – He poisoned Carl, with Clostridium botulinum. He took Carl Powers' shoes as a trophy in the vision, and then he ran away, and it was clear what had happened,"  
>"He was the murderer?" John marvelled. "God, looks like you <em>both <em>started young – did you see his face?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably: not just at the comment about the face, but at the comments comparing himself to the bomber. Not because he didn't agree there were parallels; but because he knew of and was intrigued by them. John had taught him enough about what was _normal_ by now to know that this intrigue was _a bit not good_. He just couldn't help himself, though. The case, and the bomber, was fascinating.

"I didn't – _couldn't_ see his face. It was obscured somehow, as if to protect his identity. Whatever happened, he tampered with my vision somehow. I think we should both be on the lookout for someone or something that could cause us to perceive differently,"  
>"But isn't that just how your psychometrics work?" John asked, perplexed, after making sure the window between them and the cab driver was shut – though as Sherlock had freely been talking about 'visions', he should have known it was already. "I mean, you always said it was a bit . . . <em>Dodgy<em>,"  
>"Never this bad; never this precisely flawed. It's either all or nothing with the memories I read, not full detail with <em>certain details<em> missing. Conclusion: I've been manipulated, more than once already. The poison-"  
>"You weren't poisoned, Sherlock," John shook his head, looking out of the window in an attempt to quell his defiant tone, and not to infuriate his already wound-up friend.<br>"-was real, to me. _I_ saw the puncture mark; _I _felt the nausea and panic associated with poisoning. Undoubtedly not the same neurotoxin used on Carl, what with the puncture mark . . ."

He gave a dramatic pause, fingering the same spot on his neck lightly, and John looked at him with an interested yet horrified expression:  
>"But was I actually poisoned? Can anyone from the memory interfere with me while I observe it? No, on both counts – thus, it was manipulation. I <em>did<em> say I'd been manipulated _multiple_ times, _do_ keep up," Sherlock chastised swiftly. He muttered to himself: ". . . Carl was poisoned, though . . . Clostridium botulinum . . . I wonder . . ." He trailed off, leaving his thoughts as to whether it was significant that he'd felt Carl's cause of death unvoiced.

"So . . . We're dealing with, what – mind control?" John almost choked on the words. It was frightening, both in regards to his own safety, but also to Sherlock's; _mainly_ Sherlock's, as the bomber seemed to be after him.

Sherlock pursed his lips, and made a gesture of _maybe_ by shaking his palm horizontally at John.  
>"Then what?" John persisted. He couldn't fight if he didn't know what he was up against.<p>

Sherlock's phone buzzed, not for the first time during the journey, but he looked more alert at this one: a different number of vibrations for each contact.  
>This number of vibrations signalled a text from an unknownnumber.<br>". . . Something _worse_," He answered, digging out the offending gadget. He found himself very calm, and very lucid; composed enough to wordlessly show John the message, also.

_Do your eyes deceive you? _

"He has your number?" John asked calmly. The last message had been a blog comment, deleted straight away as it clearly implicated the person behind the IP address, but now _this_. Out in the open, on Sherlock's phone, and cryptic – it was a boast.

"You're right. It _is_ a boast. He wants to show he can always get to me," Sherlock agreed.  
>"What are you doing? You're not supposed to read my-"<br>"I didn't. What you're thinking is becoming easier for me to read naturally by the day. Most of the time I answer your thoughts without even reading them. But there's more,"  
>"More what?" John asked, wondering which topic they were now discussing.<br>"This message . . . Number blocked, of course. Probably a disposable phone, too. The bomber's smart, but _this_ part of the puzzle . . . He wants it to show off more than the other bit. He _needs_ to, to . . ."

John just waited, not wanting to prompt the now-silent Sherlock, whose face drew solemn and whose mouth drew into a grim line beneath his gaze: misery had cured him of all beauty. John felt almost ashamed to be watching, as the consulting detective looked more fragile than he'd thought possible, and less like himself than he'd ever seen.

". . . To _scare_ me. To threaten me. That's what this is about – it's a power play, it's got to be," He muttered to himself.  
>"So you think this is about you and him?"<br>"It has to be. The pool – Carl Powers, and the boy I saw. It has to be our bomber. He kept the shoes all these years, it _must_ be him! And I must mean something big to him if he chose to finally give them up for my sake,"  
>". . . Yeah . . ." John looked pale, and Sherlock frowned a little, watching him turn away with revulsion as they pulled onto Baker Street.<p>

Without another word, they went straight upstairs to post on Sherlock's blog that they'd solved the case, and with several hours to spare. Sherlock's steady fingers made far less mistakes than usual, with the burden of the case's importance. He typed at lightning speed:

_Found. Trainers belonging to Carl Powers; contaminated with Clostridium botulinum. Please collect, 221b Baker Street. _

"Stop the clock . . ." Sherlock breathed, checking his watch despite the fact he knew exactly how many hours, minutes and seconds had been left to save the hostage's life.

After about a second of feverish waiting, the silver phone they'd been allowed to keep – should the bomber want to speak only with Sherlock – rang loudly with a generic ringtone. Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded hesitantly.

He picked up swiftly as soon as he'd gained the unspoken approval of the doctor, and began his conversation:  
>"Hello?" It sounded like a demand to John.<br>"Oh . . . _Sherly_," A crying woman told him with a shaking voice. "You mustn't use _yours_ if – if you don't want me to use . . . _mine_ – tut - tut . . ."  
>"And what exactly would 'yours' entail?" Sherlock demanded once more, trying to gather some authority over the bomber.<br>"Did . . . Did you, feel a bit – poorly? Poor _Sherly_ . . . But now . . . You know how deadly serious I am about . . . Our little – rules . . ."  
>Sherlock remained silent, not wanting to dignify this with an answer. He would remain above it. After all, the bomber already seemed to know him quite well: he didn't want to give him any more information by reacting. For now.<br>"Very well done, on . . . My first _riddle_ . . . WHat went into little Carl's - _medication_ . . . We'll move on – shall we? . . . The stakes will, of course, be much higher . . . Wait for my, call . . ."

. . . Silence. Then, crying: louder than previously. Sherlock realised the bomber must have relinquished control of her speech, if she was feeling more able to cry. He turned to look at John, his eyes wide and his mind racing with what they could do next.

The first riddle; the first pip they'd been sent over the silver IPhone, when they'd received it from the envelope at Scotland Yard. The game was progressing, and though Sherlock was clearly excited by this new communication, John stared wistfully at the silver phone, hoping that Sherlock wasn't in a bit too deep this time; hoping he remembered that only one of them couldn't die.

The look didn't escape Sherlock, by any stretch of the imagination. But he didn't comment on it, as he looked John in the eyes, and asked the hostage:  
>". . . Tell us where you are,"<p>

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: what do you think? I know you're probably all reeling after The Reichenbach Fall (like I am!), but I hope you could still enjoy this :) Let me know! - B.<em>**

**_ED: thanks to k8ec for help with this chapter! _**


	4. The Suspect

**_AN: what's up readers. So today I'm posting this new chapter, and asking a question that one reviewer (Katiexx) asked: "r u writing all 6 episodes in this series"? _**

**_Well, Katiexx, I'm not sure. What about you lot? Do you want more? Or are you satisfied with these three? I have the ideas, but I'd like to see if it's worth doing first! _**

**_Thanks as always to my INCREDIBLY bust beta, sharkbyonly. We've both been snowed under (PUN ALERT - because it's snowing outside) with work, so sorry about the delay! More to come, as always. _**

**_Read and review, naturally! I want to hear your theories and thoughts ;) - B. _**

* * *

><p>"<em>Yes<em>, before you ask, it _is _Ian Monkford's blood," Lestrade mentioned with a doleful gaze, as he surveyed the abandoned car and wondered, exactly, how many minutes of the six hours they'd been given to solve the case they had left. Well – how long _Sherlock_ had left. It was his case, after all, from what the mystery caller had said. This didn't sit right with the DI at all, but he would remain loyal to Sherlock: the poor bastard would need his help, and if someone's life was on the line, he would happily oblige.

Lestrade wasn't alone in just watching as Sherlock disrupted the crime scene, unable to really do anything to stop him as he clambered into the car, not even bothering to don his gloves first. John watched, feeling quite cold, and a little bit helpless.

Staring grimly at the splattered blood on the car seat, he almost didn't hear Donovan preaching at him about how he should live his life – not that he much cared anyway, her not knowing the first thing about him and everything, but it was probably polite to acknowledge her presence. Sherlock wasn't going to, so he'd have to.

"You should get a hobby – model trains or something . . ." She suggested idly, fiddling with a pad of paper that had substantially fewer notes than John thought it should do.  
>"Can you fill me in?" John asked Lestrade, pointedly ignoring her unhelpful recommendation. The other man nodded, and began to brief him and Sherlock – though the latter was barely listening, his eyes flitting over the seat, venturing further into the car and trying with a tiny part of his conscious thought not to get blood on his clothes. John suspected he'd just buy new ones if they got blood on them; he thought wistfully about exactly how broke <em>he <em>would be if he bought new clothes every time his current ones got bloodstained. It happened _a lot_.

"The car doesn't belong to Ian Munkford. He hired it two days ago from a company called Janus Cars, and then disappeared. He was an investment banker, but he'd been in a bit of trouble of late,"  
>"My guess is he owed a lot of people a lot of money – we could be looking at a hit," Donovan piped up, hoping for some form of recognition.<br>"Interesting . . ." Sherlock muttered, surveying the glove box. Lestrade, Donovan and John alike shared a collective startled blink, and a look of shock.  
>"Pardon?" Donovan asked, surprised that he'd given her what could <em>potentially <em>be construed as a compliment.  
>"Yes. Quite interesting. Anderson's stupidity must be contagious. Do try not to infect the rest of us further," Sherlock told her with an infuriating fake smile, as he backed out of the car, drew himself to his full height, and strode away.<p>

John gaped after him, wondering what the hell he was thinking – left to apologise, he decided to instead quickly run after the sleuth. He saw him approaching a woman who was standing at the edge of the crime scene, having just been left by a junior officer. She was crying: her eyes were red, and a ragged tissue was balled up in her trembling hand.

"Mrs. Monkford?" He heard Sherlock say to her uncharacteristically quietly, and then his head bowed down. John hurried up before his friend could do any damage – or, at least, he could try and mediate said damage.  
>"Please, I've already talked to the police-" She pleaded, her mouth turning down at the corners with every word, and her face pale yet blotchy. She had trouble holding her voice.<br>"We're not-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted:  
>"Sherlock Holmes," He told her, holding out a hand, with a face that made John wanted to gawp. Sherlock's eyes were red, and their silver irises had turned very slightly green with the action of . . . <em>No <em>. . . Crying?

"I was a friend of Ian's," Sherlock sniffed, in a voice to easily rival that of the grieving widow.  
>"I- I never heard him mention you . . ." Mrs. Monkford told him, shaking his hand anyway and shaking her head equally vigorously.<br>"Really?" Sherlock frowned, another two tears rolling down his face; John almost couldn't believe this spectacle; nor could he believe that he was just standing there, doing nothing to help . . . No, no – doing nothing to _stop him_. He shouldn't be doing this! This is _crazy_!

Yet he couldn't bring himself to intervene. He told himself that Sherlock's heart was in the right place. . . Well, he said 'heart'. Probably not the word Sherlock himself would use.

"To think, I saw him the just the other day – same old Ian, not a care in the world!" Sherlock continued, with a wavering and watery voice. John restrained himself, trying not to gape.  
>"My husband was suffering from depression for a long time!" Mrs. Monkford said, outraged through her tears.<p>

Suddenly, Sherlock drew himself up to his fully height, with his usual analytical gaze returning, as his eyes mechanically scanned her, and his voice dropped to his usual calm baritone:  
>"Really? Interesting,"<p>

And _there_ he was. Sherlock walked away, leaving John even more shocked, but unable to do anything but follow after him hurriedly, to quiz him on just what the hell he thought he was doing to that poor woman, toying with her like that.

"People don't like to tell you things, but they _love _to contradict y-" Sherlock began to explain, but he stopped. Mid-sentence; mid-stride.

John almost barrelled into him, with an angry and confused expression. He was about to complain, both about Sherlock's erratic behaviour and his treatment of the widow, but Sherlock turned around, his head twisting to the side; standing stock still but for his darting eyes. He looked like he could hear a high-frequency noise. John paled slightly: this . . . Oh God. This wasn't . . . ?

Sherlock turned to look at him, his face drawn and solemn but his eyes like those of a rabbit caught in headlights. As he studied John's face – every crevice, every feature, and had an in-depth look at his eyes – his facial muscles didn't twitch even slightly.

". . . Sherlock? Are you okay? What are you . . . ?"  
>Sherlock lifted his chin, still looking down at John, and then carried on walking and talking as if nothing were wrong: "- I started using the past tense, and she followed suit. A <em>bit <em>premature, they've _only_ just found the body," He pointed out. John reeled at the implications.  
>"What, you think she's involved?" He spluttered.<br>"Oh yes. Mrs. Monkford knows something. She's just told us as much – _well_, told _me _as much," He added in a superior way. John just rolled his eyes.  
>"So, what do we do next?" He prompted, fed up of waiting for the genius to let him know in his own good time.<br>"Found this in the glove box. _Janus Cars_. A rental company," Sherlock replied, handing him a business card. John took it and had a quick look, before going to hand it back. But Sherlock had stopped again . . . What was going on? He was receiving another quizzical look, for absolutely no reason.

The sleuth cursed himself inwardly for pausing, rubbing his fingers together at the point where John's fingers had just touched his own. He put his gloves on hurriedly, ignoring John's offer of the business card back, and his questions about exactly what was happening.

He led the way to the main road to catch a cab, the drizzle wetting his inky hair as he scowled up at the sullen clouds. John grumbled and sighed all the way, telling the consulting detective _you can tell my anything, you know, if there's something wrong, you can tell me, I'm here to help after all_. _I'm your friend, Sherlock. You can open up to me. _

But that was exactly the problem.

* * *

><p>Janus Cars had been an abundant wealth of information for Sherlock. He'd deduced that they didn't just provide cars to people, but entirely new lives. That much the bomber had already iterated, in his quick phone call with a terrified man's voice: <em>the clue's in the name. Janus Cars. The God with two faces.<em>

When Sherlock had asked why he'd be helping, the man had replied:  
><em>"Why does anyone do anything?"<br>_The answer had been sufficient. Sherlock had begun to develop a theory that would mean he wouldn't fall prey to another one of the bomber's schemes.

This, he hadn't told John: as they approached the lift to the ground floor of the forensics lab, where Ian Monkford's car was situated, Sherlock decided to test his working hypothesis.

"What have you told Lestrade so far?" John asked conversationally, though he was a little disgruntled that Sherlock had refused to divulge any information to him so far as to what exactly he'd deduced from the discussion with Janus Cars' owner.

Sherlock smirked, clasping his hands behind his back as they waited for the lift to arrive. He hoped it was empty, as he looked down with a mischievous expression at the doctor.

"Don't be alarmed, John. I haven't told him anything I haven't already shared with you,"  
>"Yes, and that's worrying – because what I know about the case could fit onto the back of a postage stamp," John grumbled, licking his lips as Sherlock observed the way he did whenever he was considering how to put something inoffensively: "He can <em>help<em>. You need to tell him everything you know as soon as you know it, or he won't be able to help,"

Sherlock just sighed, and looked away from his friend, wishing he could communicate telepathically for the millionth time.

John stared at him, squinting slightly in examination: he looked . . . _Distracted_? He opened his mouth to ask if Sherlock was alright, but the lift doors opened first, and he strode into it in one long stride, turning to face John with a neutral expression. Stepping into the lift, John watched Sherlock's gloved hand press 'B' for basement, many floors below them.

As soon as the doors shut, though, Sherlock moved: he turned to John, took him by the coat lapels, and before the doctor knew what was happening, he was kissing the world's only consulting detective. He squeaked in an embarrassingly high-pitched way against Sherlock's lips, and pushed him off right away.  
>"Mm! Sher- not good!" He stammered, frowning and regarding his friend with a mixture of shock, horror and awe. "What the fuck's gotten into you?" He realised he'd actually backed away from the sleuth, feeling his hands brush against tacky plastic faux-wood panelling.<p>

"Sorry, John. Unpleasant but necessary, I'm afraid," Drawled the detective in his usual deep voice, breathing out coolly and brushing down his clothes as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary. He calmly tugged at the hems of his gloves, and remained silent, offering no explanation as John floundered for words.

"_Necessary_? Why?" John asked, still in a state of disbelief: _did _that actually just happen?  
>"You may have noticed that for the past day or so I have been behaving somewhat erratically," John snorted, but Sherlock carried on, his usual controlled demeanour easily restored. "This is because I have been experiencing an unpleasant amount of <em>interference<em>," He clarified, pressing two fingers to his right temple, and then flicking them away irritably.  
>"Yeah – skip to the point, would you?" John insisted.<br>"I was just – fine. I . . . Accidentally, used my psychometrics on the blood on the seat. There was _exactly_ a pint-"  
>"<em>To the point<em>," John reiterated.  
>"I had to find out if you were experiencing sexual thoughts about me," Sherlock uttered quickly, yet still coolly. His cheeks hadn't even tinged red.<br>". . . Oh."

A pervasive silence shot through the atmosphere like a back-draft through the doorway of a burning room: super fast, and incredibly intense. As they approached their floor, Sherlock was the first to break it, gesticulating in front of himself during his monologue:  
>"As I was <em>trying <em>to say, I've grown so accustomed to using my abilities to solve crimes that I _accidentally_ saw someone smearing the blood all over the seat – _not_ the bloody murder I'd been expecting. The fact that there was exactly a pint of blood will suffice for the police.  
>"But then I started hearing these lewd thoughts. They sounded a lot like you, John – they commented on my physical appearance, and-"<br>"Yeah, alright," John cut in. Sherlock huffed but continued.  
>"The point is, I knew it was him. The bomber. I knew you'd never think in that way about me. So, it became little more than an annoyance. However, I hadn't been able to test my hypothesis in private until now – it was the final proof,"<br>"What, that I didn't fancy the arse off of you?" Asked John sardonically.  
>"You know, John, the intricate vocabulary the bomber used in the fake thoughts was mostly what gave away the fact it wasn't you. I presume you'd have been much coarser, and . . . Well . . ."<p>

He looked down at his friend for the first time during his long-winded justification of his outburst, and knew to shut up. _Now_.

". . . Baser," He finished, clasping his hands behind his back once more. An awkward period of silence followed, broken comically by the lift's automated voice proclaiming proudly that it had, at long last, ended their eternal journey to the ground floor. Really, John thought, was it strictly _necessary_ for lifts to be so bloody slow?

"Listen, mate, you're a great guy – I just don't-" John began to clarify in a low voice, as they began to walk alone down the cold cement corridor and towards the place where the car was being held.  
>"Married to my work, John!" Sherlock repeated his usual sentiment in an absent sing-song voice that bordered on sinister, rather than reassuring, as he'd been hoping for. Damn. Not communicating telepathically was <em>hard<em> and _boring_.

"Sherlock! Answer your bloody phone, I've been calling!" Lestrade's voice suddenly boomed from the bottom of the corridor. John bristled at the reprimand: once a soldier, always a soldier, and his response to authority would always be the same. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, about to launch a barrage of deductions at Lestrade, and manoeuvre him toward the car, regardless of what petty information he clearly had for him. If he could only read his mind, he could claim to already know the useless piece of information already, and get on with deleting-  
>"We've caught him,"<p>

_What? _

John tensed up beside him, and it wasn't too long before he realised that he too was on edge: a cool rush of fear and shock had swept through him. Not the bomber? Not _my _bomber! How could he be so . . . Careless?

"I don't-" Sherlock began, but found his voice to be a little hoarser than usual, and so remained silent so as to maintain his integrity. Thankfully, for once, John was the more composed of the two:  
>"The bomber?" John asked, his level of surprise severely downplaying the severity of the situation, in Sherlock's opinion. It sounded almost <em>conversational<em>!  
>"Yeah. See this is why you need to answer my-"<br>"Lestrade," Sherlock growled, disgusted that Lestrade was using his monopoly on vital information to try to get him comply with his trivial commands. He suddenly felt a wave of self-awareness wash over him: was this what everyone else always felt like? Urgh, so boring!

If only he could read his mind! Frustration spread through him in savage explosions, like starbursts permeating his entire being.

. . . But if they had the bomber, then the game was over . . . The rules no longer applied . . . _Surely_ the rules no longer applied? He could use his powers?

No. Too much of a risk. He'd already seen the bomber's go at 'humiliating', which hadn't been an understatement, and did not want to see his attempt at 'worse'.

"We need you at the station. He says he'll only talk to you," Lestrade informed them, with a cold look at Sherlock. Lestrade was fiercely loyal to Sherlock, but this time round the consulting detective couldn't tell if the DI was directing his anger towards the perpetrator, or him. Possibly he was angry at himself for not catching the guy sooner.  
>"I see . . ." Sherlock muttered, stopping for a moment with a detached expression on his face. John peered up at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer in some meaningful capacity, but seeing nothing on his friend's face that indicated a conclusion to his thoughts.<p>

Sherlock would have to conduct the interview, then. John cast his mind back to when he'd first met Sherlock: he'd made him interview the amnesia victim, while swanning off to associate with evidence that was a little less human. Perhaps he was merely anxious about interviews? . . . Could they be the chink in Sherlock's crime-fighting armour? He was undoubtedly brilliant with evidence, crime scenes, and deductions, but he simply didn't have the people skills to associate with victims and perpetrators in a neutral environment. So much John assumed, anyway.

Silence stuck in the ears of the three gathered men like wet cotton wool, as Sherlock remained speechless and quiet. A _drip, drip, drip _from the roof echoed through the cold room, as the atmosphere built. John tugged his jacket tighter around himself, as the contrast in heat between the lift and the garage became too much to just ignore.

"Listen," Lestrade began at last, but his voice sounded more soft and concerned than it had a few seconds hence. "Have you considered-"  
>"Probably," Snapped the detective, though it was more absent than John would have been comfortable with, and his eyes didn't even return fully to his companions, still looking at an arbitrary point on the far side wall.<br>"No, Sherlock – have you considered that maybe the bomber's just – well, playing a game with you? This case . . . It doesn't sit right with me. It feels, like – like he's leading you into a . . . I don't know. It's just – the pointing out crimes, leading you straight to them – even calling you up to help? It's not right, is all . . . I've been on the force for longer than I'd care to confess-"  
>Sherlock sighed loudly at Lestrade's mention of his experience, but the DI persisted:<br>"-and it just seems like he's helping with ulterior motives,"  
>"Good Samaritan," Sherlock agreed.<br>"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade asked incredulously.  
>"Bad Samaritan," Sherlock quipped back. John relaxed a little, as Sherlock drew his eyes at length back to the conversation at hand, and displayed some of his much-missed wit. Well, John missed it – it just wasn't <em>right <em>to have Sherlock without the mockery. It was like tea without milk: still passable, but a little unpleasant in comparison.

_I don't think many people would agree with me on that_.

"Did you solve the case?" asked Lestrade, as they all moved wordlessly towards the lift, all knowing that their next move would be to get to Scotland Yard for the much-anticipated interview.  
>"Oh, yes. I think you'll find Mr. Ian Monkford in Columbia," Sherlock drawled, tugging his coat collar up and tucking his hands into his pockets with a smirk, and no sign of wanting to explain.<br>"Columbia?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.  
>"I'm sure Sherlock will explain on the ride over. Won't you, Sherl?"<br>John _sounded_ as if he was asking a question, but Sherlock noticed an undertone of command in there somewhere. He bristled, sneering slightly at both the suggestion and the abbreviation of his name; he had to acquiesce, though, that he owed John one after the incident in the lift.

Well. One or _several_, he thought, and smirked to himself as they departed. He really hadn't taken well to it, after all. _Interesting_ . . .

* * *

><p>Leaning towards the two-way glass, Sherlock squinted, narrowing his gaze on his supposed antagonist. His hands were folded tightly behind his back, as they always were whenever he felt even the slightest of insecurity trying to gnaw at his coherent, infallible mind.<p>

At least, he used to think it was infallible, before this man invaded it and tore apart the state of inhumanity he thrived upon.

What to say! What to say to the man you had waltzed into your life and caused major inconvenience. Especially when your colleagues were still in the dark about exactly how badly affected you'd been; about the true nature of your rivalry.

The man in the plain, grey room smirked slightly. It was as if he could hear; it was definite that he'd know that Sherlock had kept his abnormality a secret from everyone in this entire building barring, of course, John, who stood at the consulting detective's shoulder. He was conflicted as to whether to touch his shoulder; whether to say something comforting; whether to wish him luck.

So, in the end, he said nothing, and just stared dumbly at the ill-shaven, dark-eyed man in the next room. His clothes appeared expensive: a lilac shirt and black trousers that were clearly a designer brand. He looked as if he were enjoying a joke that only he understood; his nonchalance, for a kidnapper and bomber, was sickening to John. This wasn't a joke. There were _lives_ at risk.

John opened his mouth to bid his friend to speak with caution, but before he could the consulting detective had swept out of the observation room, past Lestrade – who uttered numerous cautions to him and handed him a file that was probably _beyond_ useless – and unwaveringly entered the interview room.

The room was so totally silent that it was oppressive. The man opposite him tapped absent-mindedly on the table, eyeing him up with that ever-present smirk. Sherlock's stony expression didn't falter even for a second, as he swept into the chair opposite him. He was glad he'd taken off his coat: the room was unpleasantly warm for the time of year, and he was even starting to regret wearing his suit jacket.

He settled himself, not even looking at his interviewee for a few moments, but reviewing the file for this time. Eventually, he set it aside, popping it onto the floor and ignoring it from that point onwards.

"Anything interesting?" Asked the bomber, a hint of ridicule in his voice. Sherlock didn't say anything, pressing his palms together and staring into the dark eyes of the other man, resting his chin on his fingers: the picture of serene thought. He breathed slowly, before tilting his head to one side. It was about thirty seconds before he began properly:  
>"No,"<br>"No?" The overly-quick response was more jovial than before.  
>"No," Sherlock confirmed, knitting his fingers together, and pressing them into the cold surface of the table: a welcome relief from the heat of the room. The heat seemed to have no effect whatsoever on his interviewee.<br>"But you'd already worked out most of those things already, haven't you?" The creeping voice came at him like a serpent through long grass, potentially venomous but superficially harmless.

Sherlock sighed, giving his interviewee the onceover. He lingered at the crook of the man's elbow; his wrist; the top of his forehead.

"Nothing interesting at all, actually," Sherlock replied, sitting back suddenly and folding his arms: the picture of nonchalance.  
>"Oh?" The bomber asked, "Go on, then,"<p>

Feeling well within his comfort zone, Sherlock had man right where he wanted him now. John had been concerned that he'd been wanting to avoid this interview; far from it. He didn't get performance anxiety, but he _did_ get impatient with waiting for what he presumed would be the final act of this epic to take place.

"A typical junkie, with a profile to match. Abused as a child, self-harmed as a teenager, abused as an adult. A, B, C," Sherlock reiterated, in a bid to show the other man just how easy it was to read him.

The other man laughed, piercing the calm and collected atmosphere that Sherlock had created; marring his control.

"Tell me, why do you find your unpleasant past to hilarious?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward once more, leaning his folded arms on the table. He instantly regretted doing so, as his change in posture had indicated a desperation for information. There was a twinkle in the eye of the bomber as he replied:  
>"A, B, C . . . He was <em>right<em> . . ." The other man slapped his knee, moving suddenly from his still position from the first time; the jerking movement unnerved Sherlock slightly, but he wasn't about to be distracted. His perplexed expression warranted the bomber elaborating.

"Just like looking into a mirror, isn't it?" The other man asked. Sherlock inwardly cringed.

Yes. Yes, it was. A little too close to home. He always detached himself and his personal life from his deductions, for exactly this reason. He forgot himself in order to work as best he could at all times; it was only when someone was to point out the similarities between his own life and one of his deductions that he was forced to acknowledge them.

"That is irrelevant," Sherlock shot back coolly.  
>"Is it?"<br>"Who's, '_he_'? The man you referred to?" Sherlock persisted, ignoring the dull games the other man was playing with him.  
>"Ahhh, see? You don't understand yet, do you? . . . Do you know how they found me, Sherlock?"<br>"I don't see what this has to do with-"  
>"An IP address. That's all it took! One IP address left unshielded, with a little too many homemade bomb chemicals associated with it, and I'm here, with you. Uncanny, isn't it?"<br>"That's what you get if you're stupid enough to parade your IP address about," Sherlock bit back.  
>"Yes – I suppose it would be, wouldn't it?" The bomber replied, his manic expression tugging at his features; they were grotesquely amused now.<p>

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking the bomber side on, and squinting. He was a little thrown by the sudden change in tone. _It would be_ . . .?

"What do you . . ." Then suddenly, he realised. A cold tingle of realisation washed through him, and suddenly he broke out in the sweat that had been threatening to emerge ever since he entered the room. ". . . Oh,"  
>"Aha! And suddenly, he gets it!"<br>"You're not-"  
>"Of course I'm fucking not! – I was a houseboy until a few months back! I was cleaning every single day, wasting away my potential, until he came along . . . The devil truly does make work for idle hands," The other man said, sounding a little dreamy towards the end. "That stupid bitch and her fat brother can rot in hell for all I care now," He added dismissively. He paused, for just a second, before narrowing his eyes and continuing to grin: "You'd know all about being wasted, wouldn't you? In every sense of the word, he tells me-"<br>"Who is he?" Sherlock persisted, his voice raised and angry, his jaw clenched.

The other man just smirked. Sherlock lost his temper.

Lunging forward and across the table, he grabbed the shirt of the other man, staring deep into his dark eyes and seeing every fleck of deep, dark brown in them. There was no fear there: just amusement.

A slow, genuine smile crept across the other man's face, as Sherlock realised what he'd done and tried to control his breathing, gritting his teeth, his eyes flicking between the other man's eyes in desperation.

"You're really struggling without them, aren't you? . . . You're nothing without them," The other man whispered.

Sherlock threw the other man back, and slumped back in his chair, trying to claw back some composure with forced nonchalance:  
>"I don't know what you're talking about,"<p>

The other man laughed, his happiness knowing no bounds when it came to the struggling of others.  
>"He said as much. He knows you <em>so well<em>," The other man goaded. "He knew enough about your past to cover me in the appropriate scars. It was worth it, in the end, for all he's done for me," He shrugged.  
>"Was it?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. He restored the pose from before, his hands clasped together beneath his chin. "What was it he offered you? Money? No, no – too obvious," He chided himself, waving that notion away. "Has to be power. Always is, with your sort. Boring!"<br>"Not power . . . _A_ power,"

Sherlock froze at this, licking his lips in a way he'd seen Doctor Watson do countless times, without understanding fully why. Until now.

"And what type of . . . _Power_ . . . Did he offer you?"

He gave himself away, his eyes flicking ever-so-minutely to the two-way mirror. They hadn't reacted when he'd grabbed the suspect, but they were bound to question him on this aspect of the conversation. He'd have to come up with an excuse; a get-out-clause; another explanation about what _a power_ was. He wondered if John was squirming just watching this exchange take place.

". . . Of course, they don't know about you, do they?"  
>"Again, I can't possibly think of what you're referring-"<br>"How would they react? Would they be scared? They're _always_ scared,"  
>"I said, I don't understand-" Sherlock tried again, through gritted teeth.<br>"I don't know how you fooled them, you're a terrible liar – _he_ said as much,"

Sherlock's upper lip curled in revulsion, and he sat forward, his entangled fingers sitting in one clumsy lump in front of him on the desk, entwining and twitching with frustration. For the last time, he growled, each word coming out separately for emphasis:  
>"<em>Who is he<em>?"

Smiling around the single word he produced after such a long period of teasing, the other man replied, relishing the look on Sherlock's face that was something between excitement, fear and resentment:  
>". . . Moriarty,"<p>

Sherlock stood up suddenly, unsurprised that his rival didn't even flinch, and turned to leave.  
>"You're going to walk out of here, and they're going to see you differently. They're going to know what you are, from our little conversation. They'll work it out," The bomber told him calmly, in a suddenly deep, serious voice.<p>

Sherlock turned, his hands clenched into fists and his brow furrowed, as the tempting words his brain didn't want to hear flowed from the other man's mouth, and assaulted his calm and measured mind. He didn't want to believe them, but something told him they _had_ to be true. Even the last part:  
>"What . . . Did you . . . Say?" He asked, brokenly.<br>"You have to separate from them, or they'll kill you . . . They'll _destroy_ you, Sherlock,"

Oh God.  
>It was true.<br>They'd know.  
>They'd all know.<br>They'd destroy him.  
>He was a monster.<br>They'd all hate him.

". . . EvenJohn,"  
>"Even . . . John?" Sherlock asked, blinking deliberately, confused as his eyelids fluttered like he was trying to maintain consciousness.<br>"_Even John_," The bomber confirmed, his solemn voice curling into a delighted syllable of mockery as he spoke the ex-army doctor's name.

Even

John.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: To write or not to write? That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous feedback, or by ceasing writing, to end them. (You decide!)<em>**

**_ALSO: AN AMENDMENT. Does anyone want to know Sherlock, Mycroft and John's back-story for this Silver!Verse? Because I'm planning on making the next chapter fairly back-story heavy . . . Unless you don't want it? If you find that stuff boring then speak now, or forever hold your peace! Via review or PM, either one. Thanks! - B. _**


	5. Nightmares

_**AN: Short chapter this time, BUT there's a warning for violence, abuse and a 'little domestic', as Mrs. Hudson would say . . . **_

__**_SO if any of that stuff would put you off, please! Feel free not to read. _**

**_Other than that, I hope you enjoy! Also, I was wondering - do you want any Sherlock back-story, or should I limit it? As in, when SHerlock first developed his powers, blah blah blah. Your thoughts? PM or review. _**

**_Read and review, as always! - B. _**

* * *

><p>Flinching with his sudden wakefulness, John opened his eyes suddenly and stared into the black nothingness that was pervasive in his small room. Cosy, yes, but small; warm, but somehow cold.<p>

Or perhaps that was just him. He felt upset – well, maybe upset wasn't the word an adult would - _should_ use when confronted with a usually-talkative friend who unbelievably refused to talk to them.

Sherlock hadn't spoken a single word to him, since the interview room. He'd muttered that Raoul de Santos wasn't the bomber, and that they'd have to look elsewhere; that they would, however, find him guilty of the murder of his former employer, one Connie Prince. When asked for justification, he'd warily handed Lestrade the file and pointed out that the woman had been found dead, and the man still bore a grudge, so it was a good hypothesis to work on.

But he'd looked cautious even speaking to Lestrade. The good-natured DI had, of course, totally missed this: he thought it just another of Sherlock's quirks, but John knew it wasn't right to see Sherlock needlessly silent for any amount of time.

The sleuth had sat downstairs in his armchair, staring at the fireplace until John lit it for him. He didn't ask him to, or say thank you when he did, but John was sure he appreciated it. He was in an odd humour after the heated exchange with the bomber's accomplice . . . Almost _catatonic_. He didn't even pick up his violin; didn't even idly pluck it, creating the usually jovial staccato scale. John and Lestrade had missed the very end of the interview, as they'd left the observation room to greet him when he emerged, but he'd changed perceptibly – to John, anyway – in that small amount of time.

Returning from his troubled reflection on the day, John struggled out from under the duvet, and perched on the side of the bed, sitting upright with his knees pulled loosely up to his chest, and his feet gripping to the bed frame. He stared blearily at the digital clock display: the harsh green numbers told him that it was two o'clock.

To top it all, there had been no correspondence from the bomber de Santos had called _Moriarty_. With no purpose, and no speech, Sherlock Holmes just wasn't the same.

John had had a nightmare. It wasn't difficult to guess what about: the initial gunshot wound being inflicted wasn't an uncommon affectation of his dreams, after all. He was glad he wasn't crying this time, but he was still sweating: it felt not like he had dreamt it, but that he had _relived_ it. He wondered whether this was different to normal, or whether he was just lucid enough this time around to remember the precise detail he'd conjured.

"Interesting,"

John jumped, all of his muscles tensing and his hands clenching into fists, ready to assault an attacker; an intruder, into his room. He realised after a second's thought that it was only Sherlock.

_Only Sherlock. _

"Sherlock!" John hissed, calming himself down and turning to face the detective in the dark, or approximately where his voice had come from. "Jesus Christ, you-" John gathered himself, and finished: "You should always knock. Don't just come in when you feel like it – I need privacy!"

He reached to turn on the bedside light, but heard the same deep voice growl at him from the gaping black chasm that was the rest of his small room:  
>"Don't,"<p>

Something in the darkness moved, though John could see only abstract shapes. It was pitch black in the room, but as a cloud in the night sky moved above them, the moon's delicate rays bathed all they touched in a silvery glow. John could see Sherlock perched on his windowsill, sitting with his legs hanging down. He cocked his head to the side.

He was totally shrouded in black because he was back-lit: it reminded John of an old film noire scene, and wondered if this reference to his career in fiction would be lost on Sherlock. He decided not to say anything, as Sherlock remained silent.

After a few seconds, John ventured tentatively:  
>"Are you okay?"<br>"Are you okay?" Came the echoed reply, but in much deeper tones. John frowned at the eerie repetition: why was Sherlock acting so out of character? . . . _Was_ he even acting out of character? Or had he finally snapped, deciding he'd had enough of John, and attempting to push him away and out of his life? Such thought had to be banished immediately. John couldn't remember living with anyone else before the army really; he wasn't sure anyone else would ever be as entertaining to live with.

"Sherl-" Began John, seeking clarification.  
>"More," Sherlock spoke suddenly, snarling at his flatmate.<br>"What?" John asked incredulously, utterly confused.

More.  
>I don't–Sherlock–<em>no<em>-_! _

_One.  
>Death comes every day. They are just curious, but it doesn't make it any less painful; any less soul-destroying, and humiliating, and agonisingly painful.<br>They've tried almost everything now. Suffocation, burning, stabbing, poison, as well as the original gunshot. He's lost arms, and legs, and fingers and toes and organs and eyes and now . . . Now, he is drowning.  
>It takes a lot to drown a man, and we wonders if the perpetrator's heart is really in it; wonders which of his guards it was this time, that sought to destroy him, or to know how long he could take this torture – or to win a bet with a fellow guard as to how long he'd last.<br>The build-up in pressure in nose made it feel like something inside it was squirming, as his lungs burned and his reflex to inhale became completely unavoidable. He did so, and felt his body get heavy, though it was hardly the main thing on his mind: when he died, he always found the sickest details in the smallest things. The pulsating of his own blood from his body; the twisting of a knife; the way he couldn't stop breathing until he absolutely had to. He cursed his own resolve.  
>It always took longer than they anticipated. He used to struggle, to beg; now he doesn't do much, but sit back and let them kill him, over and over, because it's easier this way.<br>He wonders if he'll ever be sent home.  
>He wonders whether he'll ever see England again.<br>What if I have to stay here forever?  
>. . . What if this never ends?<br>He absently sunk into the darkness, and speculated as to who'd won the bet. _

–Please – stop – _Sherlock!_ –  
>More data required.<br>–SHERLOCK–

_Two.  
>Death is all around him. Like a plague ship, groaning invalids surround him, with more and more being dosed by the second so they can sleep through the flight. He considers whether they'll knock him out, or leave him awake, in the dark, thinking about all the horrific injuries the soldiers around him have sustained.<br>The doctor approaches him, and he wonders if she's been briefed as to his 'condition', because she stares down at him with a curling lip and a paling face. She prepares the needle, and John can tell she's trying to overdose him. He doesn't even care anymore. At least he'll be out cold for the long journey home.  
>He's glad he's out of the military jail, but only after a hundred deaths or more. Begrudgingly, a senior government official had accepted that it probably wasn't ethical to keep a man who'd committed no documented crime in prison, to be killed repeatedly for sport by his various guards.<br>He barely noticed her slide the needle in, not even checking for air bubbles, before injecting him and quietly walking away. Everyone turned a blind eye. Perhaps they'd been told to, or maybe they were just uncomfortable even looking at him.  
>This time round, he welcomed the darkness. It was more convenient to die than to face them all.<br>He wondered if England would want him back. _

No – don't-  
>. . . Singular . . .<br>Please, _stop_-_!_

_Three.  
>Death was being denied. He had his own classified folder now, and he was being made under pain of an indefinite prison sentence to sign a nondisclosure form about his experiences both in the army, and the prison afterwards. He feels sick – perhaps the remnants of his overdose – as his shaking left hand picks up the pen, unable to do anything else, and signs his name. The papers are whisked away, and he's informed that a private contractor will deal with them. He doubts he'll ever see that file again.<br>He's assured he'll receive an army pension, but there's no talk of compensation. In fact, the way he's being stared at indicates that he was lucky to even receive the pension. He suspects that most of them would condone the behaviour of his old prison guards.  
>He's outraged and depressed. He took a bullet in the line of duty, and lived to tell the tale: he should have been commended, and yet he was being excommunicated.<br>Soon, he realised that he had developed a pain in his leg, which made it a hideous ordeal to even walk. His hand trembled all the time.  
>He was shown to his new flat, which was the size of a cupboard and shared a bathroom with several other people on the floor of the block, and then dismissed.<br>No one says thank you. It seems they all forgot he'd saved a man's life that day, as well as losing his own.  
>His life was over now, with the job he loved far behind him, and no hope inside of a bright, eternal future. <em>

"What-" Choked out John, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking out of them in frustration, fear and pain, "-did you-" his fingers clawed into the mattress, unrelenting even when it began to be painful and debilitating, as he threw his agonisingly painful head forwards again,"-do?"

"Hmm. Explains why you're so bitter about your abnormality," Sherlock commented cordially, standing up from his perch on the windowsill, and clasping his hands behind his back after he'd straightened out and brushed down his suit jacket. "Which would you say was the most painful death?"

"_Fuck you_!" John shouted, opening his eyes and staring daggers across the room, though he was still consumed by the psychosomatic pain the reliving had inflicted upon him, as his friend paced. Sherlock just smirked:  
>"No, don't do that. Don't try and block me out, it's too late for that – I've seen your past now, <em>Johnny<em>,"  
>"Don't-"<p>

John collected himself, frowning and wiping the involuntary tears that had formed during his forced reverie from his bloodshot eyes.

_Johnny_. It wasn't a pleasant name, for him.  
><em>How long d'you think Johnny will last this time? <em>

Sherlock just looked at him, and raised his eyebrows, his smirk ever-so-slight but infinitely maddening to John.  
>". . . Strangling,"<br>"Ah, I've always thought so, too. You know, every corpse I examine, I get this nasty little lingering sense of what it feels like to die. You know what I mean, don't you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head this way and that to make his point rather than releasing his hands from behind his back. John could see he was squeezing them together extremely tightly; he was tense as a tightly-coiled screw, but John was far from caring.  
>"-the fuck is wrong with you, Sherlock?" He asked, almost growling, as he stared into dark eyes.<br>"_I'm a high-functioning sociopath_," Sherlock mimicked the very same phrase from the night they'd solved the taxi driver case. The first time John had killed for Sherlock. The man himself gave a hollow laugh, and stood at the silver-bathed window, casting himself into a mere silhouette again. ". . . Do your research," He added, after the laughter had faded out.

There was a long pause, and John could hear no traffic, no revellers, no neighbours . . . The atmosphere was thick with the weight of words unsaid, and questions unasked.

"Why?" John asked, his voice becoming more collected, yet still angry, upset and a little bit fragile.  
>"Why not?" Spat back Sherlock, whirling around and staring at John, gritting his teeth with sudden anger. John recoiled, the knife-edge that Sherlock's emotions rested on tilting dangerously towards the side of psychosis. "You know I've been wanting to. All this time, while you've been wandering around this fucking flat, off getting milk and newspapers and-" hew finally threw his arms up in the air, flailing them around to represent '<em>all that other <em>normal _stuff you do_', "All I've been thinking is, I wonder what he's been hiding! I wonder what he's not telling me! And you know what?"

John stared warily at Sherlock's hand: his thumb was bleeding at the nail bed from nervous scratching, the blood appearing shining and black in the poor light. He decided to be cautious, and so warily ventured: ". . . What?"  
>"I didn't find anything. You haven't been hiding <em>anything<em>. Nothing at all! You realise how fucking _weird_ that is?" Sherlock shouted, approaching him suddenly. "I _knew_. I read in your file that time – the torture in prison, the repeated murders – I _knew_ about those. But I assumed you were hiding something . . . But you weren't. Nothing I didn't know about already. So I got angry . . . And I made you relive the memories, so I could . . . So I could . . ."

By this time, Sherlock's mood had dissipated into a melancholy remembrance, full of sudden shame, and shock at his own actions; _regret_. It didn't look right on his face: it didn't look _human_, not on Sherlock, especially not in this insane lunar luminescence.

"Listen, I . . ." Began John, tentatively, as though Sherlock were the one who had awoken from a nightmare – not him. "I'm going to get a glass of water, and a plaster," He added gently, staring pointedly at Sherlock's thumb. Sherlock smiled weakly, but it quickly drooped, and he slumped himself down onto the bed, his legs hanging over onto the floor, and his head in his hands. John was torn for a second as to what course of action to take, but he decided that it would be best to give the man a moment or two.

He could have sworn, when he was walking down the stairs, he'd heard whispers and sobs emanating from his room. His face set into a grim expression and his action less the result of personal autonomy and more automatic duty, he sought out a plaster, and filled a glass of water. He often found that a glass of water calmed him right down after one of his nightmares: the cooling sensation would quell the disastrous heat of fear that spread from his chest to his extremities, corrupting his soul until he felt like there was nothing else in the world than dying, dying, dying . . . Getting up to get a glass of water had been what he was going to do before he'd realised Sherlock was in his room.

Sherlock. He didn't know what the hell was going on with the world's only psychic detective at the moment. He filled the glass, and then set it down, leaning his hands on the sideboard, and staring into space with utter blankness; irresolution about what to do.

The guy had sworn, he'd make himself bleed, he'd invaded John's room, threatened him, mentally tortured him, and now he was most likely _crying_. Though he'd been devastated by them not moments ago, now John didn't even think about the reliving of his experiences. He could worry about that later, and seek an apology, _if he was lucky_. But right now, Sherlock was very. . . _Out of sorts_, and he had to do his best to - to . . . Calm him down? He wasn't sure that was the right expression. 'Comforting' wasn't quite right, either.

As he ascended the stairs, he felt his right leg twinge, and he spilt a little of the water trying to right himself once more. He hadn't made a sound, other than stumbling, but no doubt Sherlock would have heard and would plague him with questions about why his leg was acting up later; they wouldn't be questions that he wanted to answer.  
>He knew the reason his leg had begun to ache again was because he'd relived the memories. He'd been dragged back to the experiences that had damaged him more than any gunshot wound, and made to sit through them in painful real-time.<p>

He persevered up the stairs, brandishing his glass of water and plasters as he walked into the room, opening his mouth to say something reassuring, but he paused, standing in front of the now-unoccupied bed, and frowning.

Somewhere in the room, the ever-so-slight clink of a belt buckle sounded out like a klaxon in the silent night.  
>"Sher-!"<p>

Before he could finish the name, John felt tightness against his neck, and knew exactly what was happening, having relived death by strangulation only a few moments ago. He was dumbfounded, though, and almost couldn't bring himself to fight back with the sheer, dumb shock of it. This was _Sherlock's _belt, constricting around his neck, crushing his airway more and more by the second, as his hands dropped what he was carrying to claw helplessly at the leather band, scratching his own skin as if he wanted to pull it off.

". . . They'll . . . _destroy_ you . . . Sherlock . . ." The sleuth grunted, distracted from his efforts with his mindless repetition of the words that drove all his actions so far. However, his grip didn't relent, but tightened, if possible, while John's feet kicked as if he were treading water.

The next words changed everything:

". . . _Even _. . . _John _. . ."

Finally, his wits returned to him, and Sherlock wasn't Sherlock anymore: Sherlock was enemy 101.

Skill set: telepathy, black belt in Judo, height in excess of six foot, long limbs, element of surprise, and belt as a weapon.  
>Weakness: has to oppose an immortal ex-soldier who is also a doctor, with medical knowledge to know where to attack, and combat training to put it into practise.<p>

Suddenly, he yanked his hands from his neck, and elbowed his attacker in the groin. The man gave an enraged shout, and recoiled just long enough for John to struggle away; elbow him in the chest in addition to the other blow, and causing him to crumple onto the floor. But the psychic was ready: the glass of water, dropped and forgotten by John and spilt over the carpet, was the perfect weapon.

John's attacker grabbed the glass, and lunged forward, smashing it into the former soldier's face, and making him scream loudly with the sudden harsh pain. Laughing, his attacker went to pick his belt up again, but even in his pained state John knew to grab it, hitting his attacker with it: the blow hit his arm, stinging him, and therefore delaying his assailant enough for him to allow his own face to heal slightly so he could see properly once more. Blood stained the floor, as the gangly would-be assassin regained his composure, and held up his fists, utter loathing in his black eyes.

John dropped the belt, and before the other man was able to launch another debilitating attack, he head-butted him. He slammed back into the wall, his head hitting it at an alarmingly high speed, with a loud _crack_. He slid slowly down the wall, staining it with blood, and ending up propped up against it with a look of utter surprise and agony.

John stared down, panting and checking for signs of life. He saw them: two black eyes staring up at him, pleading, as the man held his hands up to his face, palms outwards, as if trying to defend himself.

". . . Please, no . . . D-da . . . D . . ."

And he was Sherlock again. John almost winced; as he watched Sherlock's eyes turn silver once more, his state of pleading suddenly turned back to his impassive, calculating self. He looked down, puzzled, at his shoulder which had a few drops of blood on it falling from the back of his head. He frowned almost comically at it, as if he was thinking '_that's not supposed to be there_ . . .'

John's face contorted in horror, as he suddenly crouched down next to his friend, examining his injury. Sherlock waved him away blearily, trying to insist in a slurred voice:  
>"'M fine, John – jus . . . Ice-"<br>"It'll need more than ice, Sherlock," John said blandly, not really paying attention as he gently tilted the consulting detective's head forwards and examined the matt of blood-stained hair.  
>"John – I . . ."<br>"Shh," John part-soothed, part-commanded. He took a discarded t-shirt he'd worn yesterday from the floor, and pressed it hard against the gushing blood coming from Sherlock's head.  
>"I didn't mean – they – he made me-"<br>"Seriously, shut up," John warned his friend.  
>". . . I'm sorry."<br>"Sherlock? . . . Sherlock, can you hear me? Open your eyes," John commanded, as Sherlock's eyes slid shut and he passed out. He shoved his shoulder shard, and tried rubbing his knuckles up and down the sleuth's chest, to find that while he did wince slightly at the pain, he didn't open his eyes or talk.

_Oh God, what have I done? _

He listened to Sherlock's breath for ten seconds: it was regular, but frantic.

He looked around with feverish determination for his phone, and grabbed it when his eyes found it all-too-slowly. He dialled 999, and waited impatiently for the line to connect.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," A calm voice from the doorway uttered, as the light of the room switched on suddenly. He hadn't heard anyone enter the flat, but was beyond caring, as there, in the doorway of his bedroom, was a man he was gladder to see than ever before in his entire life.

Flanked by several obviously-experienced and hurrying healthcare professionals with medical kits, Mycroft Holmes stood surveying the scene coolly. He nodded thoughtfully, seeming detached from the fact it was his brother bleeding on the floor, as John slowly disconnected his phone call and let the medics through to attend to Sherlock. He stared, gaping, at the idiosyncratically-dapper elder Holmes brother in the doorway. The man had this to say:  
>"Yes, I envisioned as much. Alisha?" His usual assistant, now with pale skin and a few moles on her face and with bright blonde hair, emerged at his side attentively, "I need to you have the others make up a fully functional treatment centre in Sherlock's room. . . This little incident doesn't leave two-hundred and twenty-one B."<p> 


	6. An Ally

_**AN: let's calm it down a little bit. There was a lot of violence last time, wasn't there? I think we'll have some angst today. YAY ANGST! **_

**_This chapter goes out to all the people who said they wanted this story to be darker than the last two. OOH AND, and, it goes out to my reviewers, without whom my ego would only be MILDLY inflasted instead of completely distended. This one's for you, folks! _**

**_Warnings for . . . Mentions of abuse/violence . . . Language. If the f-word counts? I don't know, I don't keep tabs on these things. _**

**_ANYWAY. Enjoy! Read and review, if you get time! Cheers - B. _**

* * *

><p>After gently plucking another shard of glass from his face with the aid of a pair of Mrs. Hudson's best tweezers and Sherlock's magnifying mirror, John looked up and stared at the back of Mycroft's head, as the other man peered out of the window at the soft pink early-morning scene. The elder Holmes was as much of a curtain-twitcher as his younger brother; Mycroft more so, because he'd virtually made a career out of it. He'd spent all of his time at the window, when he wasn't busy examining all of their possessions, and setting them down where John just <em>knew <em>he wouldn't be able to find them later.

It seemed when he'd come to visit them about the Andrew West case, he'd been being restrained in his nosiness in regards to their belongings, but now that his brother wasn't currently around to reprimand him, he handled them as he pleased, with John too polite to stop him from doing so. He remained tight-lipped partly because he felt guilty about what he'd accidentally done to Sherlock; he also felt ashamed to admit that he hadn't given the Andrew West case a second though since this bloody carousel of a case – or rather, Sherlock's insane feud with a bomber. He'd fully ignored Mycroft's pestering text messages completely, and now considered exactly how the elder Holmes was feeling about this.

Far from oblivious to John's eyes boring into him between removing shards of glass stoically from his own face, Mycroft allowed himself a reverent glance at the one window that had, miraculously, survived being blown out by the recent bomb; the print Sherlock's forehead had left on the glass after months of the young genius habitually pressing his head to the pane. He remembered fondly the first time Sherlock had tried to describe his thought processes, when they ran out of control and he'd be suddenly listening to the thoughts of everyone in a mile's radius, while simultaneously trying to see through a mystery as if it were made of frosted glass. He'd described it as a terrible heat, as if brought about by fever: he'd leant against the glass of the hotel room window that night, and let out a relieved sigh, as if the physical coldness were enough to quell the mental inferno he was experiencing.

Of course, then, it had not been the mystery of a client he'd been trying to solve; it had been the enigma, the total _maze_ of what the common man would call _sentiment_. Or, perhaps, passionate _hatred_. He'd never experienced it before, and so that night in a hotel room, fresh out of hospital and unable to return to the place he reluctantly called 'home', he'd struggled greatly.

"Only once have I come across a man as determined to control the thoughts of others as Raoul de Santos. Sherlock did admirably well not to come out of that interview room and simply murder everyone in the whole building. It was miraculous that he chose only you to attack, rather than someone more . . ." Mycroft paused and looked John up and down with an air of condescension, before choosing his words delicately: "_Perishable . . ._"

John ignored the back-handed compliment and continued working on his face. He thought to himself that it certainly wasn't very wise of Mycroft to aggravate a man who was in a bad mood due to having to perform surgery on his own face, without anaesthetic.

"A weaker mind would have collapsed, and been entirely unable to hold back from doing de Santos' bidding, but not Sherlock," The elder Holmes continued, though his tone was conversational. He turned to John, and smiled disingenuously. "He was always the stubborn one,"

"What happened to the other one? – The other man who could _control thoughts_, I mean?" John asked, trying to remain level-headed, with a voice to match. The glass fragments lodged in his skin were becoming fewer in number with his painstaking effort and concentration.  
>"He's no longer an issue," Mycroft replied vaguely, and with a parting glance at the window pane, joined John in sitting in one of the living room's armchairs.<br>"You . . . '_Envisioned as much_'," John began, wincing at how oddly clunky the words sounded coming out of his own mouth, in comparison to Mycroft's . . . Or perhaps his wince had come from the fact he'd just extracted a piece of glass about an inch long from where it had made a sheath in his cheek. It really hurt, but he was beyond caring. He'd been through worse, he thought – though he tried to forget the fact he'd relived those particular memories, at the hands of someone he'd thought to be his best friend, only a short time ago.

Mycroft had had a job trying to convince him it was de Santos' manipulation alone that had fuelled Sherlock's curiosity. Perhaps, if he was to believe the consulting detective's fevered words, he'd wanted to delve into his memories from the second he'd met, but had been – oddly – too polite to do so. Maybe the manipulation had merely been an excuse, to forcibly extract those memories from him . . .

He chastised himself, shocked and appalled at how his own brain had twisted something that his friend couldn't control, being _brainwashed_, into actually being his fault. Fucking _Moriarty_ – that's what de Santos had called him – had really done a number on him, as well as Sherlock.

"By now, John, you should have realised that both Sherlock _and_ I were imbued with great power," Mycroft replied idly, picking up a spherical crystal paperweight from where it lay on top of a lab report on the elemental composition of a long-forgotten piece of trace evidence. He stared into the crystal with an increasingly sombre expression, as if he were mourning an unknown loss.  
>"He psychic abilities, and I prophetic visions. Though while he chooses small personal victories to employ his gifts with, I have always had the bigger picture in mind. For instance, I have stopped five world wars with my ability . . . I do believe Sherlock has solved upwards of five hundred cases by now?" He added with an expression of mild interest, damning the detective with faint praise. This riled John greatly.<p>

"Sherlock's saved lives, too. It's not about how many, Mycroft – and it's not a competition,"  
>"With me and Sherlock, everything is a competition," Mycroft countered.<br>"Oh for or f- . . . Right. Okay. I understand – sibling rivalry. But _why_?" John asked, exasperated. The face of the British Government twisted into an ugly condescending expression, leaving John to wonder _precisely _how Sherlock and Mycroft came from the same genes. Though, _obviously _they did, otherwise they wouldn't be having this conversation about powers, which were clearly genetic. Not for the first time, John cursed powers, of _any_ kind, for creating situations such as these.

"This is not the first time Sherlock has been seriously . . . _Incapacitated_. I'm sure you're aware of the drugs. . ." Mycroft said, with a tone of mock-tentativeness. He was pretending to be gentle, while persisting with his speech unyieldingly. John sighed, irritated already.  
>"Yeah, I am. Move on," John growled.<br>". . . Sherlock developed his powers when he was sixteen. I developed mine several months before he did. As with most people, there is a cause for these abilities - a catalyst, which helps bring them out. Often it is a violent or unprecedented event in one's life – for example, your experiences in the war. The power tends to be appropriate to the needs of the individual, too, in the research I've conducted, though there are a few cases of bizarre manifestation . . ."  
>"Research? . . . You've been testing people?" John changed the topic, his sickness at the current one comparable to the feeling he might have if he was grappling fruitlessly with the controls of a speeding freight-train.<br>"Nothing too bad, I assure you, doctor," Mycroft dismissed with a falsely reassuring tone, obviously wanting to continue with his overly-dramatic narrative.  
>John snorted derisively:<br>"What _would_ you define as '_too bad'_, I wonder? – Actually, don't answer that," John spat. He pulled a little too ardently on a shard of glass from beneath his eye, and gasped with the pain. He stared at it with the intense hatred he'd thus far preserved for Mycroft alone, before depositing it in the used mug he was collecting the discarded glass in.

The elder Holmes was about to carry on with his narrative, when he suddenly frowned, and looked as if he were considering something that was slightly taxing to him.  
>"I gather that my brother attacked you. How, may I ask, did he choose to do so?"<br>"What?" John asked, removing the final piece of sharp shrapnel from his brow with a flinch. He deposited it triumphantly in the mug, and the peered at its contents, not wishing to come across as worried as he was for Sherlock's state.  
>"The method of attack – it involved a belt, did it not?"<br>"Um . . . Yes. Yes, it did – how did you . . . Oh. You saw, didn't you?"  
>"I <em>heard<em>. The clink of a belt buckle. My visions tend to be furiously imprecise. I find they can be more temperamental than even Sherlock, when they desire to be so,"  
>"Well that's a bit rubbish," John muttered, and Mycroft glared at him as he stood up to dispose of the mug full of bloody glass into the bin. He turned back, and frowned, before he spoke again: ". . . I don't understand, though – why is the belt important? Did you want to check the accuracy of your – your '<em>vision<em>', or . . .?" John trailed off, awaiting the answer of the now steel-faced elder Holmes. His countenance was stormy, and he looked as if the effort to keep calm was becoming ever-more difficult.

"My father's favourite form punishment, particularly for Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a very straight, monotone voice, "Was to hit him with his belt . . . Either that, or lock him in the cellar. I was never insubordinate enough to warrant such action, but you know Sherlock . . ."

John, struck dumb by this new information, recalled the way Sherlock had regressed when faced with his attack. Had he even said '_Dad_' at one point, when he was begging? . . . Or was that just his reconstructive memory, working its sinister tricks on his tired mind?

"Doctor Watson!" Called a bright and cheery voice from the lower floor that cut through his horrified reverie. Even when she'd been woken earlier than usual by the noise of Mycroft's men setting up a treatment centre for Sherlock's injuries – which were found to be, after examination, not as harsh as John had suspected, warranting only temporary observation, stitches and bed rest – Mrs. Hudson was still amiable and kind. "Doctor Watson, your post's here!"

The older woman approached, in her dressing gown and slippers, and carefully left the letters on the same sideboard she always did.  
>"Just remember dear, I'm not your housekeeper," He reminded him in her usual gentile tone of voice, flashing him a kind smile that only faltered for a second at the sight of a few blood stains on his clothes. Still, she dismissed the marks, and persevered with her happy expression.<br>"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled back at her, despite feeling awful on the inside. She was unwaveringly jovial and supportive of them, despite not _really _knowing what was going on in 221b most of the time, and John was always appreciative. He owed her that smile.

He rifled through the letters with a non-committal expression on his face, slumping himself into his armchair once more, and letting himself sink into its comfortable folds. There were a few for him – there always were – and a few pieces of junk mail, bills etc. for Sherlock. With a sigh of resignation, he looked up at Mycroft, who was inspecting him with a look of distain.

John huffed at this and, not wishing to sit around and be subject to more needless scrutiny, uttered a quick: "I suppose I should give him these. He can open them when he's awake and feeling better," before stomping towards the door, to go and hand Sherlock his mostly-useless post.

"John?" Called the senior government official sitting in his flatmate's favourite armchair, languidly setting down his paperweight. John responded slowly, turning around with a false, squinting smile plastered across his face, as if he were about to lose his rag with Mycroft – which, in all truthfulness, he was. Having no sleep and being assaulted had that affect on him, he supposed.  
>"Yes, Mycroft?" He asked through gritted teeth. The other man's expression was imperious as he replied in a silky, equally aloof tone:<br>"You needn't worry about the Andrew West case,"  
>"You solved it, then?"<br>"Far from it," Mycroft smiled dangerously, and John frowned, inwardly cursing how very _dramatic_ everything had to be with the Holmes brothers.  
>"And . . . What does that mean, exactly?" John folded his arms, still tightly gripping the post and wearing an expression that thoroughly requested that Mycroft get <em>straight<em> to the point.  
>"Andrew West is not dead, because he never existed,"<br>"Which means . . . ?" Asked John, completely confused.  
>"Ask my brother, when he wakes. I shall be taking my leave soon; I need to make an important phone call to the Korean ambassador . . ."<p>

John slammed the door loudly as he trudged out of the room, not wanting to endure any more of Mycroft's bullshit today. Though he was utterly baffled as to what Mycroft was doing when he gave them a case about a man who didn't exist, he decided he'd ask Sherlock about the West case later, when he was feeling better. It wasn't _that_ high on his list of things to do, after all.

Besides – he wasn't sure there was enough of his mind left to worry about it with: most of it was consumed with worrying about Sherlock already, as he made his way to the sleuth's room.

* * *

><p>Cast adrift on a sea of acidic blood, bitter in his veins, in his mouth, in his eyes; blotting with red, and blue, and black – a hand, a hand – tight, and insistent. Where? His hand. My hand. His hand.<p>

He didn't slip in and out of consciousness, or if he did, he would later refuse to admit it. Life was binary. Life was binary, and so was sleep. He only awoke once, becoming slowly more capable and aware as the minutes dragged on; more wary of every second, more frightened of the lack of sensation in his skin on preliminary assessment.

To say that this wasn't how he felt when he woke up _every day_ wasn't inaccurate, though.

What of his brain, should his transport malfunction? What then? Then, then –then, there would be only darkness, and a hand, his hand, clutching his own, his soft skin . . .

His . . . ? Well, _obviously_.

Hands: soft, small, insistent. Conclusion. Conclusion? Con . . . Clu . . . Sion . . . ?

Not tough. Gentle. Gently tight, a grip that wouldn't give up. It was almost like John, almost –

But what have I done now? The torture, the crying, the violence and the lies and the, and the – fear, and the lack of control and the system override and the _behaviour_.

I'm . . . _sorry_?

What can I do, to make things right again?

Reposition . . . Negative. Limbs offline. Oh, _dull_.

Eyelids . . . Functioning. Reluctant, but serviceable. _Painful! _

White. _Heavenly_ white, if such a pure and perfect place were to exist outside of the dreams of the deluded. But it was not the room which was white: more of a sickly pinky-grey; it felt as if the paint were mixed with cyanide and the bricks were cemented with lead.

White, but yet . . . Still tinted with grey.

Eyes do not drag, they do not glide: they jerk, tiny rotations until a face is revealed. Above the whiteness, to where he expected to see . . . Well, small hands . . . Gentle, it was almost like –

_John_, he mouthed, when he found his throat parched and his mouth dry from the analgesia. Morphine. He had tried it, once. Not enough of a rush. Not enough of a _rush_.

But that . . . No, that smile wasn't _John_ . . .

The detective started to struggle, suddenly fully aware of his whole body, fully alert, and remembering _everything_ all at once. The sight of that smiling face was enough to make him writhe, panicked, trying to get away.

He forgot any pretence of rules – rules? What rules? Oh. _Oh_!

It's _you_.  
>Yes, Sherlock. It's <em>me!<em>

The hand clasped his wrist now, tight enough to bruise and digging down into capillaries with its manicured fingernails, and he swallowed repeatedly to try and make himself able to speak once more, but his frantic breath dried out his mouth anew; there was never a chance he'd be heard, when the other man climbed onto the bed with the washed-grey white pillow he was cradling shoved over his face.

Jim? . . . Jim, from the hospital?

Straddling him, he pushed down, and Sherlock's limbs shook with adrenaline and weakness and fatigue: he physically couldn't fight off his attacker, nor could he prize him off in any way. Limply, he focussed his attention on not being smothered to death, twisting his head this way and that. The futility of it all sickened him, or was that the lack of oxygen? He couldn't tell, he didn't know, he was stupid, stupid, stupid, dying, stupid –

The second he thought he might pass out again, the other man lifted the pillow, and held his face, whispering in his ear.

"Jim Moriarty . . . _Hi!_"

* * *

><p>"<em>JOHN!<em>" Sherlock screamed in uncharacteristic terror, his eyes opening wide, and his fingers curling into long, sharp claws.

"Alright! Alright, I just came to give you your post!" John jumped, and yelped at Sherlock's sudden wakefulness. The sleuth noted that he'd been about to gently touch him on the wrist, if anything could be gathered from the fact he'd just withdrawn his hand sharply.

"Oh, for goodness – _John_," Sherlock chastised, panting and trying to calm his breathing. However, as he looked around, finding himself in his own room, in his own bed, able to talk and move and breathe, he felt a little better. While he could still detect traces of pain medication in his system, and feel that he'd had some form of stitching at the back of his head, he felt incredibly good on it. Perhaps the medication hadn't worn off yet. Perhaps he was just luck to be _alive_, and not in the hands of that man, from his dream, the man, who . . . Whose name, was . . .

He shut his eyes, and rubbed his face. He was becoming less and less sure there _was_ a man in his dream. More like a faceless attacker, taking advantage of his powerlessness. One didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to work out that this was a parallel to the situation he was in concerning his powers: someone goading him, mocking him, when he was at his most vulnerable – without his telepathy and psychometrics. Simple.

"Sorry – I didn't want to disturb you. You never sleep, and well, you did have a pretty nasty blow to the head, or two," John added sheepishly, eyeing up the bruise on the sleuth's forehead where he'd headbutted him.  
>"Yes, I recognise that," Sherlock snapped, and snatched the post from him. He made a big show of reading each piece of post fully yet quickly, to reassure the doctor that he had full cognitive function – though, in fact, he was parched and his head ached.<p>

"About that . . ." John trailed off, waiting for Sherlock to cut through his remark with some acerbic comment. It never came, so he was left to awkwardly continue: "I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, but – well, you attacked me, and I panicked, and I'm really sorry, so . . ."

Sherlock remained completely silent, sifting through his letters and mail as if John wasn't there.

"What were you . . . What made you do that?" The doctor inquired tentatively.  
>"I'm sure Mycroft explained. He's downstairs, isn't he?" Sherlock asked idly, not really wanting him to reply. "Review the last minute of the interview tape; you'll easily see my motivation, <em>if<em> it could be called that," Though he sounded bored, there was a certain bite to his words.

His hands nimbly cast the last few letters to the side, and then came to the final once. He sighed; had to _laboriously_ reach for a letter opened from his side table to cut through the tape it was sealed shut with.

His eyes flitted through the letter's content, and he continued to look thoroughly bored.

John waited patiently for his apology, but never received one. Sherlock had nearly killed him, and the apology was coming from _him_. He counted to ten silently, and turned to the door, making to leave, and still feeling that last night's affair would have to be dealt with properly at some point.

". . . Singular . . ." Murmured Holmes.

His companion turned back to look at him, in time to see him jump out of bed, clutching the letter; brandishing it like a trophy, his eyes wide and feverish with excitement. He toppled slightly, with the dizziness his condition gave him.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Take it easy! . . . And put some bloody trousers on, would you?"  
>Sherlock waved his comment away, and held the letter up with pride, though he sat on the bed.<br>"John," He told his friend, his lip curling up at the corner in amused excitement, "I do believe we've found our first ally . . .!"

He offered John the letter, while he muttered to himself:  
>"Stationary's cheap . . . Ryman's, undoubtedly – the refill recycled paper pad . . . He used a Bic biro, standard black . . . Common, easily procurable-!"<br>John read the messy print handwriting, squinting as he read through the letter, and then his eyes widened. He looked up at Sherlock, and then back at the letter: it was signed – a _nom-de-plume_, surely – _Mr. Fred Porlock_.

John's eyes widened, and he read eagerly. _Surely this would be their first piece of luck so far . . ._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Want more back story, or want me to cut back? Let me know! - B. <em>**


	7. The Next Round

_**AN: Unbeta'd I'm afraid! AND subject to change. I feel like I forgot something really major, but I can't quite remember what it was (obviously), so bear that in mind! **_

_**I hope you enjoy this! The beginning letter is from friend Porlock, who - if you've read the canon, which I highly recommend you do! - will be nothing new to you. If you haven't read the canon, it's okay! You can still pick it up, and it's not THAT similar, anyway. **_

_**Right! Sorry for the long delay between updates, I'm crafting the plot of the next one, trying to make sense of it all - the likelihood is, it'll be Hound before Scandal, actually. **_

_**So, R&R, as always. Cheers! - B. **_

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><p><em>Mr<em>._ Sherlock Holmes,_

_I feel I cannot postpone correspondence any longer on the matter of your ongoing feud with the criminal mastermind by the name of Moriarty. Though I have had information that may be beneficial to you for some time, I have allowed myself to delay action, assuming that he will be thwarted by your somewhat infamous intellect. Unfortunately, I have underestimated my employer once again, in terms of what he is willing to do to best you.  
>Do not be alarmed – though you may presume me a foe, wishing to confound you once again in your ongoing dual with my employer, I can assure you that I am genuine in my positive inclination towards you, and your colleague Doctor Watson. I will make this letter as brief as possible, for I cannot be sure that it shall go undetected. Future messages will be safeguarded; this letter, I assure you, was delivered under strict orders that it be handed to your landlady, and signed for.<br>In all honesty, I am a somewhat reluctant member of a criminal organisation, run by the elusive mathematician and psychopath James Moriarty. As with many – if not all – of Moriarty's intricate syndicate's members, I have had bestowed upon me by some divine hand a power, the nature of which I shall not disclose for fear of identification. By now, you will have realised that I shan't be using my own name to sign this letter with. In regards to my role, I can tell you that I am a vital part of the organisation, and it couldn't function without my presence a tenth as well as it currently does. My loyalty and compliance is paramount to Moriarty, and in the past, I have been willing to give them to him – if not happily, then without the all-consuming guilt that I now feel.  
>But now I say: no more. While I could give up my post, I fear it would result in my death, to be frank. I feel that I could be of more assistance to you as an anonymous informant, aiding you in matters that you require assistance on.<br>Why should you trust me? I cannot give you any indisputable proof that my claims are genuine. However, as a peace offering and a token of what I hope to be a lasting kinship, I can volunteer this simple piece of information: the 'lost Vermeer' on sale for thirty million sterling at the Hickman gallery is, unfortunately, a fake. It's a convincing counterfeit, by one of my employer's most talented forgers (a man who, up until the idea concerning the painting was conceived, was wasting away forging bank notes, on the run in Eastern Europe). His ability works so: an aura of falsehood surrounds the painting, making those who labour under the assumption that the painting is genuine unable to see the fact that it is clearly a fake. I do believe that the very same man was, incidentally, involved somewhat in the tampering with your psychometric visions during the Carl Powers case, though multiple assailants were required to pull of that stunt so devilishly well. Truly, Mr. Holmes, you are a man of fiendish resolve, much to the chagrin of the five or so men attempting to make you believe you had been poisoned during your vision.  
>In regards to the foul punishments my employer has considered necessary when you use your powers to aid you in a case, I can only apologise. Being the ultimate hypocrite, he has dispatched one of his men to constantly monitor you for any sign that you are using your powers, and as I have mentioned employs countless others to enact his unusual punishments. Therefore, I urge you not to try to trace this letter; nor should you, at any time, try to find me. With the aid of my colleagues, I shall know if you're trying to do so, and I will cease all contact with you. Please, forgive me my anonymity, but you must understand that I would be dead in a heartbeat, should I be found to be in contact with you, Mr. Holmes.<br>I hope sincerely that you shall take me up on my offer of partnership. I can only apologise for my lack of identity, and beg for your understanding.  
>Until our next correspondence, recover from your current ailment in the knowledge that I am always looking for ways to assist you and Dr. Watson from my position within the labyrinth that is James Moriarty's organisation,<br>Mr. Fred Porlock.  
><em>

* * *

><p>"You didn't project," John stated thoughtfully, after a few seconds of comfortable silence as they waited for a cab outside Baker Street. It had been a day, <em>a whole day<em>, since the attack, but Sherlock was ready to be out again, by his own standards. Obviously John would have liked him to remain in bed, resting and _wasting his life _away a bit longer, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

The doctor wondered if Sherlock's ability to summon cabs seemingly out of nowhere was to do with some form of subliminal psychic summoning, seeing as now he wasn't allowed to use his powers, none at all graced the street in front of them.  
>"Hmm," Sherlock hummed distractedly.<br>"Your dream . . . Oh _come on_, Sherlock, I've had enough nightmares to notice someone who's clearly waking up from one," John added when he realised the sleuth was trying to play dumb. Of all the things Sherlock could act well, but couldn't fool John with, 'ignorant' only came second to 'sentiment' on the short list.

Sherlock sighed, as a cab _finally_ rounded the corner and pulled over for them.  
>"You're right, I didn't. Pity really, if you'd seen the bomber, you could have remembered him for me, and we wouldn't be in this predicament," He commented loftily, his tone insinuating that it was John's fault he couldn't see his dream. The former army doctor just shook his head in disbelief at Sherlock's attitude, and climbed in the cab behind him.<p>

"So, where to?" Asked John, as the cab driver glanced at them via the rear-view mirror, echoing his question with his eyes.  
>"The Hickman gallery," The consulting detective announced regally, and settled in for the fifteen minute drive over – that is, if traffic was good. John rolled his eyes – <em>surely <em>it would have been quicker to get the tube!  
>"No, it <em>wouldn't <em>be better to get the tube, because I'm expecting a phone call. No signal underground," Sherlock murmured, staring out of the window and clutching his phone, tapping it against his lips with a gloved hand. His eyes flicked with the rapid eye movement you might find in sleep. In a situation so surreal, it seemed hardly worth of note, but very fitting.  
>"I said <em>quicker<em>, not better,"  
>"Well I'm sorry I can't read your mind," Sherlock snapped back. He was obviously feeling the tension.<p>

The letter had made it clear that something was going on at the Hickman Gallery that would be the focus of the next 'game'. He hoped the phone call came before they got there, otherwise it would be pretty obvious they had inside knowledge – but he anticipated he'd receive a call any second now. He was 95% sure that the flat was being watched, and that Moriarty would only restart the game as soon as he was physically able to deal with it. After all, a weakened enemy was only fun _to a point_. He wanted someone who was completely equal to him, in terms of powers, physical health and intellectual.

. . . But _why_? And surely they weren't equal, if this Moriarty still had his powers, and Sherlock had been stripped of his? Perhaps they were ineffectual powers? – Or perhaps something that wouldn't help him in this battle of wits? For example, pyrokinesis certainly wouldn't be helpful in the skilled game of chess they were playing with their lives. Not as helpful as psychic abilities, anyway.

The phone rang, eventually, though when Sherlock stared blankly at the screen, the time displayed was but a minute since he had last checked when they got into the cab.

John set his jaw, and looked up at his friend, his expression sturdy. He swore he saw something like fear in the consulting detective's eyes at that moment. Fear, or – though he didn't want to admit it – _excitement_.

Sherlock, cleared his throat, and uttered as firmly as he could as he answered the call:  
>"Hello?"<br>"Glad you're back with us . . . Sherlock. I was . . . _Worried_, for – for a moment. Thought I'd gone – too far. But then I thought – I thought . . . It was worth, it – to watch you . . . _Dance_,"

_Male voice this time, more steadfast and resolute than the woman's voice. Less likely to break down and leave his speech unfinished. That's a good thing, at least._ John's reasoning kept him from being driven completely crazy by the current state of affairs; by exactly how useless he felt, and was.

"Why did you let your man get caught? Was it simply so he could play his tricks on me, or something more?" Sherlock demanded calmly, though annoyance already tainted his voice.  
>"So many – <em>questions<em>," The man uttered, his voice monotone, and hard like a cinderblock – but one that could shatter at any moment with a little provocation, just like fine glass.  
>"What your man did to me – I hadn't even deviated from . . . From your <em>rules<em>," Sherlock stated through gritted teeth, hating having to admit that he was adhering to the bomber's conditions.  
>"And?" Choked out the other man.<br>"And so that wasn't very sportsmanlike, was it? Having me attack my teammate like that? I could have been killed – _then_ where would your _game_ be?" Sherlock was getting angrier at the voice at the end of the phone.  
>"I suppose it'll teach you not – not to get <em>distracted<em>," The simple reply came.  
>"Distracted? I <em>had <em>to interview him! He asked for _me_!"  
>"And you couldn't – say no . . . Could you?"<p>

Sherlock spluttered, and his eyes flicked from right to left rapidly as he considered this option. He hadn't even felt compelled to deny the interview. He'd assumed it part of the game – now he was finding out the hard way that while it was part of the game, it was merely a decoy. He couldn't assume _anything_ with Moriarty.

". . . That's not the point! I thought – I thought I had no choice! I thought it was part of the game! And I'm being reprimanded for it?" Sherlock shouted, and John laid a hand on him to calm him, but he shrugged it away violently. His frustration was scaring the doctor slightly, as they waited for the bomber's idle and disgustingly matter-of-fact words to come and wind them both up further from a shaking voice.

"Temper, temper – Sherlock . . . Life isn't fair, _pet_ . . . For example, I – I could . . . I could easily blow this man up in a street crowded with – with schoolchildren and puppies, but . . . That's just _life_," The victim's solemn voice was wavering more by the second at the casual mentions of his own mutilation.

It took a few moments, but the sleuth composed himself, his lips tugging down at the corners as he closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

"What's my next case?" He asked finally, his voice hard and uncompromising after the bomber's wilful misleading of him and manipulation had provoked a frenzy of hatred and annoyance in him.  
>"It's just . . . Wonderful – is what it is . . . Wait for my picture,"<p>

Then the line went dead. Sherlock took the phone from his ear, his mouth still contorted in a crescent of disgust and anger. His admiration of the bomber appeared to be long gone, to John – he just hoped that the promise of a _wonderful _case, and its deliverance, wouldn't plunge Sherlock back into the murky depths of adoration.

Seconds later, after a weighted silence in the cab, Sherlock received a picture.  
>It was a body, on the south bank, face down on the muddy sand.<p>

"Change of plans," Sherlock addressed the driver, and the man's head turned, faced with the picture of the body. "Take us here, please. The south bank," He added nonchalantly, as if directing a cab driver to a location with a picture of a dead body were the most routine thing in the world.

Stunned by his friend's action, John cringed internally as the driver's eyes widened, his eyebrows ascending his face wildly, but complied. He covered his eyes with his hand, sighing in embarrassment – but secretly, underneath it all, he was just glad that Sherlock had done something _completely and utterly Sherlock_. He hadn't done anything properly rash and unconventional since his _turn_, as John had now taken to calling it, and John as glad to have him properly back. Sherlock knew this, and a small smile graced his lately too hesitant face as the cab changed direction, heading south.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Please review! It's a great source of motivation for me, and I need to know if there's anything missingthat you'd like to see in the story! - B. **_


	8. Golem

_**AN: I hope you don't mind if I skip some of the stuff you probably know off-by-heart anyway. I mean, the adjoining stuff - you all know the plot, I'm sure. I just want to get to the action, before this story gets way out of hand! **_

_**So, this chapter gets back to some action, as will the next. LET ME KNOW, though, if you are confused/think I've missed something completely vital. **_

_**Hopefully you'll be getting some answers/Moriarty action in a couple of chapter's time! (a couple, as in, two). **_

_**Thanks! PLEASE read and review, it brightens my day. :D - B. **_

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><p>Inky black and midnight blue . . . Bright white light from numerous – <em>numerous<em> stars . . . Houses, villages, settlements, haphazard rooftops and centuries of history, and births and marriages and deaths and landscape and wrong, wrong, _wrong! _

_Something_ had to be wrong with it! Something must be off.

Sherlock's upper lip curled in revulsion as he dipped his head slightly, stooping to get an even closer view of the 'lost Vermeer'. There _had_ to be something. His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened on one another.

Of course, he knew it was a fake: friend Porlock had made sure of that. But then, he was dealing with a power that altered your perception of an object, unless you knew for absolutely certain its true nature . . .

Sherlock wished fervently that he knew he could trust Porlock one hundred percent: then, perhaps, the perception-altering power wouldn't work of him, because he'd know for _certain_ that it was a fake, because he'd know for _certain_ that the man was telling the truth. As it was, he didn't trust the informant enough to believe hm. He was untried, untested, and could be another one of Moriarty's little side-shows. He was loathe to admit it, but that little distraction . . . The fight with John had really shaken him. His opponent _truly _knew what he was doing. He had an objective, and he knew how to obtain it.

But Sherlock had an objective, too. Solve the case. Work down to the final pip, and beat Moriarty. It sounded simple enough.

But he felt that nothing would _ever_ be simple _ever again_ right now. He was submerged in annoyance and anger at the fact that he couldn't simply let himself believe fully that the painting was a fake. It was just so _good_! – Too good, actually, for a lost Vermeer was a fine thing to come across, and worth millions. That someone would just _find _it, thus earning themselves a huge fortune, was very unlikely.

He felt it. He didn't use his powers, but there was always _something_ going on in his brain that was above normal – he was, after all, a genius. But what he felt was doubt: doubt of the painting's origins, almost tangible, and almost enough to reveal its true nature to him. He nimbly flew to the painting's side, and for a brief moment, saw a wavering field in the air in front of the painting: it appeared like a heat wave, or a mirage, and then was gone.

Like a parched man in a desert, believing he had sighted water, Sherlock focussed on the field: he felt it was his big chance to see the painting's true nature. But as soon as he tried to look at it, it disappeared. The painting no longer had that quivering field of distorting light in front of it, but looked as plain as it usually did.

Slowly, he retreated to the front of the painting again, a smirk spreading across his face. All he needed to do now was come up with _one tiny detail_ that would be a decoy for him to claim the painting was a fake. If he started spouting the 'perception power' theory to Lestrade, he'd probably be sectioned; and if he said it to Moriarty, he'd probably get suspicious: after all, Sherlock had never been aware that such a power existed before he'd received word of it from Porlock. Moriarty would realise he'd been betrayed, and then all chances of future help from the informant would be destroyed.

So, something that _anyone_ could see on the painting that would render it a fake . . . Something, _anything_ . . . Alex Woodbridge had known that something was wrong with the painting, so there _must _be something obvious. The chances were very slim that he'd been able to see through the perception field, so there must have been something else to make him suspicious.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock didn't turn around. He'd calculated that the gallery's curator, a woman by the name of Wenceslas, would be up here to check on the wellbeing of her meal-ticket at around this point. So he had dressed for the occasion: no need to change trousers or shoes, but a rather fetching white shirt buttoned to the top, with shoulder patches and a jacket to match the standard guard's uniform, were necessary. The hat wasn't really of paramount importance, but it was a nice addition.

"Just admiring the view," Sherlock commented in a blasé way to her, without looking away. _There it was again_. The wavering mirage . . . He nearly saw through it; to what the painting really looked like underneath. He just needed to have a little more faith – urgh, how he _hated _the very concept!

"Yes, well – shouldn't you be doing your rounds?" She asked accusatorily.

He turned around, an invasive yet amused expression gracing his pale features as he continued, without answering her:  
>"A very good piece of fakery, in my opinion,"<br>"Excuse me?" Asked the curator, her head drawing back and her eyebrows climbing her creased forehead, reflecting her shocked and outraged tone.  
>"It's a fake, it has to be . . . Alex Woodbridge knew it was a fake, too, didn't he? Is that why you had him killed?" He replied, strutting up to her, indulging in the dramatic nature of the words he was saying, but all the time failing to raise his voice. The frustration he was feeling at not spotting the exact feature of the painting that guaranteed its ersatz nature remained solely in his eyes, not lacing his voice.<p>

The accusation was a long shot, but obviously had her riled:  
>"I could have you fired!" She spat, looking him up and down. He snorted in derision, smiling at her cluelessness and wearing a mocking expression, as he mirrored her; his visual onceover of her garnered more results than hers of him, he wagered.<p>

_Late fifties, Polish in origin, married two – no, _three _times: three different rings, three different indents, three different scars. Casual relationships ever since she reached the age of fifty: evident from the low neckline and hairstyle she favours, and her body language towards what she perceived originally to be an 'adequate' male. Expensive jewellery, bought herself from various exhibiting artists around London, no shop-bought items of clothing: so much is evident from their 'quirky' nature. However, she wears too much jewellery; it's all worn every day, too – she wants to appear rich, but doesn't have the resources to keep the image fresh. Excessive make up – hoping to make the impression of elegance, but coming off as trying too hard. _

_Conclusion: she's running out of money for the gallery. This painting is her last chance at making it big, and dragging the establishment out of the murky depths of debt. Ample motivation for trying to sell a fake painting for millions of pounds, then. Perfect. _

"Not a problem," He told her nonchalantly, with another smug smile, after his second's pause for deduction. He _loved _the feeling of deducing all necessary information via only common methods. He'd forgotten just how _exhilarating_ it could be.  
>"Really?" She asked, pursing her lips and folding her arms, challenging him and trying to create a fear of being sacked on the spot.<br>"No," He said in a casual, light voice, "I don't work here, you see. Just thought I'd pop in to have a quick look," He smiled disingenuously at that. The smile was enough to unnerve her – it was crafted to do so, just enough to get the message across.

_I'm onto you, Ms. Wenceslas. _

"What?" She asked, even more outraged. He continued to smile, widening his eyes at her, before turning around, and walking towards the fire door. He shed his hat, with a quick glance at the now-distorted-looking painting. It was becoming more consistently odd-looking – clearly, he decided, his encounter with the curator had affirmed his suspicions that it was a fake, and now he could _almost _see through it, constantly. Her behaviour – the denial, the shifty expression, the over-enthusiastic anger – had been enough to set him on the right course.

"You'll be hearing from me again, Ms. Wenceslas," He called back to her, dropping his jacket haphazardly to the floor, and reaching the emergency exit emblazoned with the Hickman Gallery's logo. "Afternoon!"

With a flourish, he opened the door, and stepped out before she could even react properly. He escaped via the exterior stairs, undoing the top button of his shirt, and checking his phone. A few texts – one from Lestrade, asking him about progress on The Golem . . . _Delete_ . . . Mycroft: 'we need to talk about Andrew West. Urgently' . . . _Delete _. . . Ah, John – something about the last person the victim had contact with before his death: a Professor Cairns.

_To the astronomy institute it is, then_, he thought with another smirk. That gave them a lead, and then perhaps they could try and complete the impossible task of trying to find the Golem, who they knew to have been hired to kill Alex Woodbridge, if that was what Moriarty wanted.

However, as he hailed a cab, climbed in and texted John to rendezvous at Baker Street, he knew what Moriarty wanted in his heart of hearts – assuming he was in possession of such an organ, literal or metaphorical. He was no man, Sherlock had decided. He'd also decided with a degree of certainty that what Moriarty wanted was for Sherlock to figure out what made the painting a fake.

The rendezvous would take place not only because he needed to get changed, but because he needed John to pick up his Browning. He had a dark, brooding feeling that he would certainly need it, with the Golem out there: elusive as smoke, and abrupt as sudden gunfire.

_After all,_ he reasoned: _there's probably a target on my back for investigating this case. He could be preparing to strike at this very moment. _

"Is this bloody B and E _again_?"  
>"Hardly," Grumbled Sherlock, as he landed squarely on the floor of the bathroom he'd just climbed through the window of. John had gone through, on his own insistence, first: he didn't want Sherlock to leave him, and besides, he'd needed a bit of a leg up anyway.<br>"Oh, yes! I forgot – you already had your fill of that earlier at the gallery. My apologies," The ex-soldier grumbled, casting a furtive glance around.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and mimicked John's preliminary assessment of the situation. He trod carefully across the modern, shiny bathroom and towards the door. The institute was well funded, and home to lots of important and renowned research projects – all irrelevant data, of course, aside from the fact that Professor Cairns was the head of education, and thus in charge of the visitor's displays. With space travel the science _du jour_, the institute was never short of visitors, and it was the Professor's job to coordinate the over-simplified displays that went on in the galleries downstairs, and the auditorium.

Now, this was the vital piece of data: from his homeless network, he had gathered that the Professor's car – a blue Mondeo – wouldn't usually leave the car park until at least half eleven each night. Sherlock had also done a brief bit of research, and had found that she was working on a new display about Saturn and the gas giants; John's research at Alex Woodbridge's flat had proved her to be a kind and intelligent woman, which boded well for their chances of her cooperating with them.

Even if they _were_ breaking and entering. Hmm . . . Slight issue, there. But she would hopefully give them information if it would help solve her friend's murder.

They snuck out of the door, treading lightly: Sherlock went ahead, as always, but was almost on tiptoes, John observed with amusement. Seeing the gangly consulting detective using his huge feet in such a way was unexpectedly hilarious – he was glad the sleuth couldn't hear his thoughts at that moment, for fear of offending him.

The lights were still on: the ground floor was lit with minimal lighting, for the few staff that remained, though the upper floors were shrouded in darkness. The lights of this floor were obviously expensive, and were well-designed to be bright without being harsh. Unhelpfully, this meant no shadowy areas for them to inhabit – at least, that was, until they reached the backstage of the auditorium.

They did so in a few minutes, avoiding several hurrying professors who were so absorbed in their various projects that they probably wouldn't have even noticed them anyway. They easily eluded the chubby security guard, who was totally engrossed in his 'Killer'-level Sudoku.

"Honestly, how can they be so self-absorbed?" Sherlock sighed in exasperation at the class of people they were outwitting as they broke into the backstage area, aiming to find the stage and locate the Professor. Sherlock had reasoned that she'd either be checking on technical elements of the presentation, such as the lighting by the stage, or would be at the sound desk at the top of the auditorium.

They took out their torches, and began what they did best: sleuthing.

"Yeah, imagine," John muttered sarcastically.  
>"Hmm? – What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, his sarcasm-filter obviously malfunctioning. John sighed, but as they had a look around, peering round corners and into antechambers, he decided to just go with it:<br>"Seriously, Sherlock – it wouldn't _kill_ you to be a little more observant,"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John, as if to remind him: _which one of us can deduce a software designer from his tie, and a retired airline pilot from his left thumb?_

"No, not _that_ kind of observant – like . . . Well, could you tell me how much milk we have left?"  
>". . . You bought a new bottle on Tuesday, didn't you?"<br>"And since then, I've bought two more bottles, since that last one curdled due to _someone_ leaving some sort of green . . . _mush_ in it. What _was _that?"

Sherlock had stilled, peering upwards at a cast-iron black ladder leading to an electrical box. It was extremely high, and his mouth was slack with the extent of his head and neck tipping backwards to view it.

"Sherlock? . . . Are you okay?"  
>"Yes, fine," He answered slowly, in a deep and pondering voice. "Not a big fan of backstage areas," He added, thoughtfully.<br>"Why not? . . . Stage fright?"  
>"No, I had a case a while ba – was that a <em>pun<em>? Did you just attempt a _pun_, Watson?" Sherlock asked, frowning with a sly smile; his tone was mocking yet amused.  
>"Just trying to lighten the mood! . . . You were saying?" John asked, with an innocent expression. Sherlock's smile dulled as he looked back up.<br>"When I first started out. I had a case in a theatre – multiple disappearances, the police were baffled. A nasty business," He added, as he strode towards the stage, not wanting to be in the dark any longer.

"Did you solve it?"  
>"With a little help," Sherlock replied cryptically. John silently resigned himself to the fact that this was probably all he was getting from his friend, as they both stepped onto the stage –<p>

– and saw the Professor being attacked viciously above them, at the top of the auditorium.

Shocked, John floundered for a second at Alex Woodbridge's friend being strangled at the hands of what looked to be a giant, in silhouette, looking not dissimilar to the evil Shadow they'd once fought. He called up to her, unsure of what to do, his current feelings of uselessness and helplessness brought on by the Moriarty case amplified, until they were all-consuming, making him freeze.

"Professor Cair-"  
>"GOLEM!" Sherlock interrupted, bellowing at the man – the <em>creature<em>? – that threw the woman on the control desk, making the presentation fluctuate and repeat, jumping at random intervals and mildly informing them of the distance of Jupiter from the sun. She'd been felled like a tree, and dropped lifelessly to the floor as the thing turned its attention to the two of them, slowly drawing itself to its full height and bearing down upon them from on high.

John suddenly felt the metallic presence of his Browning keenly on his back, as if it were_ calling _to him, itching to be drawn.

The lumbering creature didn't hesitate: it ran to the edge of the control booth, and leapt into the air. Sherlock and John, astonished though they were, backed away instinctively from the great looming form. It was truly huge: seven or eight feet tall, its arms were like tree branches and its fingers like spiny off-shoots. The hands from which they grew were like dinner plates, and just as white. Its head was bare, like a skull, and its eyes appeared red like a burning flame.

But, undoubtedly they knew now, it was no creature: It was a _man_.

He landed with a crack, breaking the floor beneath him carelessly, snapping the polished new pine flooring to smithereens. He grabbed John, who had naturally placed himself in front of Sherlock – their own battleformation – and picked him up, considering him for a moment before throwing him like a rag doll across the stage and into a wall. Some paint chipped off, as his head smashed into the hard stone, and his bones all jarred at once from the impact. He was just glad it hadn't been Sherlock.

But he was next. Bravely holding his fists in front of himself, the sleuth braced himself for a physical confrontation as the deafening sound and flickering lights distracted him. However, though the man had height and strength on his side, he was clumsy and reckless – he didn't have Sherlock's agility. Neither, he presumed, did he have his black belt in Judo.

The giant bared his large teeth at him and hissed animalistically: clearly his boss had informed him _all about_ Sherlock, and he knew what to do. He considered the smaller man for a moment, and went to pick him up. Sherlock dodged the attempt skilfully, and managed to get in a punch to the man's gut, and then to his face as he bent double.

_Not too shoddy, Holmes_, he thought to himself as he backed away slightly. But it took the Golem merely a second to recover, and he powered forward, clutching Sherlock by the neck and throttling him with one hand, and covering his mouth with the other. Frantically scrambling for escape, Sherlock wondered which ability, _precisely_, this man's physical stature and amazing strength came under. He displaced the fevered escape attempt onto classifying the man's physical attributes.

He _could_ have been a normal human, if not for that gargantuan leap: _that_ would have killed any normal person, he reasoned, as his gloved hands clawed at the large one clutching at his throat. He had a horrible realisation at that point: _this is what I did to John. He went through this burning pain, the running-on-empty, the fast-accelerating exhaustion and the crippling loss of energy, of . . . Of life-_

"Golem!" Roared a voice behind the man, and out of Sherlock's view, over the sound of a narrator blandly informing anyone who would listen about supernovas and black holes. He felt himself being dragged around as if he were no more than a bag of sugar, and placed so that he was in front of the Golem; still being suffocated, between John and the murderer.

John stood with his forehead bleeding; his Browning firmly between his two hands and aimed squarely at the Golem's head. He wasn't shaking whatsoever, and Sherlock realised at that moment that it didn't even matter that Sherlock's possessed body had tried to kill him. _It didn't matter_.

"Let him go," John asserted with a calm yet forceful voice, "Or I _will_ kill you,"

It didn't matter because the depth of loyalty, of trust, of vengeful respect and kindness just beneath the surface, simmering away, had come into the immortal's eyes: Sherlock realised that John would die countless times for him. He also realised that he himself would suffer this – this strangulation, injury, humiliation – just to see the depth of loyalty and honour come out from its hiding place in John's soul, and emerge as it had now from that usually so meek persona of his.

It was worth a wound.  
>It was worth <em>many <em>wounds.

John's safety clicked off, and he took just the briefest of glances into Sherlock's eyes. There was panic there, of course – but on this rare occasion, there was something else; something Sherlock Holmes didn't give away easily, nor with frequency, even to John. John saw _trust_.

Do it. I trust you. Do it now, before I run out of air.  
>Sherlock, I can't – what if I hit you?<br>Pull the trigger. Do it.  
>– <em>so calm! <em>How are you so calm?  
>JOHN!<p>

But it wasn't necessary: the Golem struck out, kicking John's gun from his hand, and leaping from the stage. Like a monster from a child's nightmare, he ran always as if he was chasing some sort of prey, and never as if he was being hunted himself. Sherlock's frantic grappling with the discarded pistol could never hit him; not even John's professional marksman skills could strike him down, in the best of conditions, let alone with the racket and flashing lights.

But the consulting detective needed to aim a pot-shot or two at him: after all, they'd failed to avert the death of Professor Cairns, and had let the elusive Golem slip through their fingers. However, with the Professor's murder, they knew for sure now that a cover-up was in place, with _almost_ enough evidence to prove that the painting was a fake. And despite their failures, the both of them – neither of whom spoke after that final gunshot, other than to Lestrade to explain the situation over the phone before they headed back to Baker Street – felt as if they had won _something_.

They'd grown a trust that wouldn't be broken from now on, and they both knew it.

But the auction of the painting was the next day. Sherlock couldn't talk about their joint epiphany now: he had some serious work to do – with John at his side, of course. He was going to find what had made Alex Woodbridge suspicious about the painting if it was the last thing he did.

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><p><em><strong>Read and review! - B. <strong>_


	9. Highly Expendable

**_AN: The home stretch! Well, kind of. This is the penultimate chapter, as I'm sure you'll realise by the end of this. As far as I can tell you, Moriarty is a lot more antagonistic in my version than the canon, if such a thing is possible! But you may have figured this out already. _**

**_I can't remember if I mentioned this before, but I plan on doing my version of '_TheHounds of the Baskerville_' after this story, instead of my '_A Scandal in Belgravia_' equivalent. This is just a personal choice - _and_ I had a good idea for _The Hound_, and have mapped the whole thing out. Let me know if you like/dislike this idea, though! I'm always open to suggestions. _**

**_Anyway, back to the story. Sorry this one has gone on for so long, and for the sporadic updates, I am a bad author/a busy student/excuses, so please forgive me, enjoy, and R&R! - B. _**

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><p>Standing in a semicircle around the lost Vermeer, the four of them gazed at it with varying facial expressions. Both Sherlock and John were analysing it tirelessly, examining and re-examining, squinting and yielding the same result: neither the doctor nor the genius could find anything wrong with it.<p>

DI Lestrade was, of course, grim-faced and patiently waiting for the duo's conclusion, with the stoicism and patience usually only exhibited by saints. He was on edge, at the same time, without letting on: the bomber case was attracting a lot of attention, and was, quite frankly, making him look bad. _How had they failed to prevent the abductions?_, they asked. _Why hadn't they tracked down the guy already?_ _Why couldn't he solve his own case_s? _Why did he need some floppy-haired arsehole to do it for him?_ Embarrassing, to say the least.

But not as embarrassing as having to stand there while said arsehole was staring keenly at a priceless painting, claiming that it was fake, much to his personal humiliation in front of a rather important gallery owner. The auction was _today_. Sherlock had bloody chosen his moment this time –but how this was different to any other time, he couldn't say.

"Suggestions?" Sherlock breathed, loud enough for only John to hear.  
>"Don't <em>you<em> have to solve it?" Replied the doctor with exasperation. He'd assumed the consulting detective had his answer, and was now just waiting for the fateful phone call from the bomber so he could show off. But _no_: he hadn't worked it out yet, much to the dismay of his colleagues and the smugness of the owner.  
>"What the bomber doesn't know won't hurt him," Replied Sherlock immediately, as if there was already something else he thought had escaped the bomber's attention, though John couldn't think what it could possibly be.<br>"You can't afford to take that risk, Sherlock!" Hissed John, before ending his period of leaning with his eyes inches from the dried oil, and standing up straight, offering the perpetually unimpressed owner an apologetic smile. It did nothing to help.

"This is ridiculous. I'm being treated like a criminal. Have I committed a crime, inspector?" Demanded the businesswoman icily.  
>"Just confirming that, thanks," Sherlock replied without looking away.<br>"I – I've never met someone quite so rude in my entire-"

She was cut off by a sharp ringing, and all three men froze with the knowledge of what this meant, providing it wasn't just Mrs. Hudson informing them that the state of their walls was coming out of Sherlock's rent. Ms. Wenceslas looked taken aback by this extra insult to injury: interrupted? By a _phone call_?

"Unbelievable," She muttered, tilting her head away from them in aggravation as Sherlock's hand nipped into his pocket, answering the call.

The room was sill, for just a second.

"The painting's a fake – it has to be . . ."

A second's pause was drawn out for much longer than was strictly necessary, as John glanced at the painting, and once again, saw the shimmer Sherlock had described on the journey ever. He'd described it as being under the influence of some sort of . . . '_Perception filter_', like from a science fiction show or something. Madness! The whole thing – their _lives_, were utterly steeped in insane impossibility, it seemed to him.

But when Sherlock's facial expression changed ever so slightly, all elements of wonder and disbelief were expelled from his mind. That slight widening of the eyes, the catch in his breath, the twitch of both eyebrows.

"10 . . ."

Sherlock hurried forward, hurriedly pressing the button for speakerphone and shoving the device into John's clammy hands. John felt the detective's hand as it brushed past his own, also slightly breaking out in a stressed sweat. He immediately knew why.

"9 . . ."

"A child – it's a _child_, Sherlock!" John gasped.

"I know, I know – think! Something, _anything_! Do you see it? Do you see what's wrong? – no, wait – it has to be _me_-"

"6. . ."

"Alex Woodbridge saw, and he had an IQ of about _thirty –"_

"5. . ."

"For God's sake, Sherlock-!" Lestrade roared, less in anger at the sleuth, more in impotent rage and fright for the fate of the child on the other end of the phone.  
>"There's something I'm missing! Something, <em>something<em>, and I _know_ it!" Sherlock growled, his eyes flicking back and forth, side to side, up and down, diagonally, round and round and round and round and-

"4 . . ."

"John-"

Sherlock and John caught one another's eye for the slightest of seconds . . . It was the contextual clue he'd needed all the time, to remember what he'd forgotten – not forgotten, but stored away, deep inside, an accidental memory, implicit, covert and yet lurking, hidden, but still in plain sight –

"Oh, that's brilliant! Brilliant!" Sherlock cried, his eyes widening as he recalled the moment he and John had stared into one another's eyes at the observatory, and he'd become completely, _painfully_ hyper-aware of _everything_.

"2 . . . "

All he'd needed to do was reinstate the context, and he'd worked it out, the hidden impossibility, the irregularity!

"1 . . . "  
>"The Van Buren Supernova!" He shouted, snatching the phone from John's over-tight grasp. "The Vermeer was painted in the 1650s, but the supernova didn't appear in the sky until 1858 – so it <em>couldn't <em>have been painted in the 1650s!"

They all held their breath, noticeably tensing up. Ms. Wenceslas, too, was nervously staring at the detective, mouth agape, veins protruding from her neck and hands.

Something incredibly odd then happened to the painting, as they all, one by one, turned their eyes towards it with the creeping realisation that _yes_, Sherlock had just confirmed that a painting worth thirty million pounds sterling was a _fake_. Everyone aside from Sherlock gaped openly at what they were seeing; the man himself simply listened as the little boy on the end of the phone told them his address, and smirked at what had happened to the now-not-shimmering painting.

It wasn't shimmering because it wasn't even a painting anymore.  
>It was a <em>note<em>.

_Sorry folks, false alarm! No painting here. Now, feel free to worry about how I managed to slip this note in its place, but you'll never find out. I won't even tell Ms. Wenceslas, and she's my client – well, _was. S_he's highly expendable, as she's just about to find out.  
>Yours sincerely, Jim Moriarty x <em>

Lestrade, to his credit, seemed almost unfazed by the note, turning immediately to Ms. Wenceslas and taking out his handcuffs: "Abigail Wenceslas, I'm arresting you under suspicion of fraud. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later reply on court . . ." He trotted out the usual speech as he handcuffed the gaping woman, who was still shell-shocked and pale.

Sherlock donned a black leather glove quickly, and took the note from the place where the painting had been. It was fastened by a single nail, where the painting had, the blink of an eye ago, been hanging. None of them had seen the transition, but suddenly it was a painting no more, and was merely this note, written, he was glad for the authenticity of his source's sake, on the same cheap paper as Moriarty's employee had used in his letter.

Breathlessly, Sherlock examined the paper with his pocket magnifier, as John mustered up the words to deal with this situation:  
>". . . The painting . . . Was just this bit of paper, in disguise? – You can only see it if you knew it was there? . . . Blimey . . ." He exclaimed, smiling and panting with the exertion, the <em>thrill<em> of another supernatural problem solved.  
>"Precisely," Sherlock whispered. "Perception-altering field. Moriarty was mocking us with this note – he knew it was a fake all along. Ms. Wenceslas knew it was too, though I assume she thought it was a very good forgery, <em>not <em>a hand-written note in disguise . . . Singular . . ."  
>"How're we going to explain this to Lestrade?" John mumbled to his friend, nervously eyeing the DI, who was now diverting his troubled mind's attention to apprehending the fraudster. This was the type of conversation the duo would usually have mentally.<br>"We're not. We're just as baffled as they are – understand?" John nodded once, in reply, as Sherlock took the note over to the DI, placing it in the spare evidence bag the DI carried about his person at all times just in case of emergency, though he knew from his examination and from personal experience that fingerprint and DNA searches from it would be useless.

Moriarty was laughing at them, _again_. He found their – no, he found _Sherlock's _personal humiliation amusing, and loved to repeat it over and over. Sherlock, though frustrated, couldn't deny that he was clever. In fact, he would _almost _go as far as conceding the man his equal.

"How's he going to top this?" John marvelled out loud, as they made their way downstairs, to get a cab to follow the police cars back to Scotland Yard.  
>"I don't know," Sherlock told him quietly, though deep down, he had a vague idea. Something he thought Moriarty had overlooked thus far.<p>

Besides: he had to, as John said, better himself. With a sense of foreboding and eyebrows knitted, he decided that the next pip would probably be the worst so far . . .

* * *

><p>Listening quietly to the babbling of the television and to John's slow, monotonous typing, Sherlock found himself to be more content than, by rights, he should have been. While he was waiting for the fourth pip – of what he presumed to be five – he reasoned with himself that maybe his earlier melodramatic thoughts about how the next task could be too big to overcome weren't going to come to fruition. After all, Moriarty wanted him <em>alive<em>. That was all that mattered to Sherlock, if he was honest. That he was still alive, and thriving, and not _bored_.

John sighed, sending over the email detailing their investigations into the painting prior to the explosive denouement at the gallery to Lestrade. Sherlock refused to write up such details: utterly pointless, he had dismissed them as, before flouncing over to the sofa, pulling his Belstaff coat tighter around him to shield him from the draft the window that hadn't remained intact had caused, and tuning into an ITV2 repeat of The Jeremy Kyle show. Yeah – _pointless_.

He shut his laptop, as Sherlock bellowed something about paternity tests at the television, and took his gloves out, donning the first without relish as he faced the inevitable task at hand: trying to make things right with Sarah. Well – that, or breaking up with her. Either one would _not _be a fun occasion; however, she was expecting him, and as such, he had to go. She would worry, he supposed . . . But not that much. It wasn't like he could go and get killed or anything. For once, he thanked his lucky stars that his power couldn't be turned on and off like Sherlock's could: this way made him far less subject to manipulation, and made people in the know about it far less needlessly worried about his personal safety.

"Right. I'm off out – I don't suppose there's any chance of you picking up some milk while I'm out?"  
>"Hmm? . . . Yes, well, alright. As long as it doesn't interfere," He gestured with his head to the IPhone on the chair's arm, without unfurling his tightly-wrapped arms from their cocoon of warmth.<br>"What – really?" John asked, his eyebrows flying upwards, and the incredulity and delight in his voice obvious even to Sherlock, who was busy ascertaining just how many sex acts had taken place between two people on the chat show.  
>"Yes," He replied shortly, downplaying this milestone of selflessness.<br>"Then, um . . . Some beans, as well?" The doctor ventured hopefully.  
>"Alright," He agreed, and added as John turned away to leave the flat, "And good luck with Sarah. Happy break-up,"<p>

John looked back, taking a breath to ask Sherlock how he knew, but in the end simply rolling his eyes and wistfully wishing him goodbye.

Ten or so minutes passed, with Sherlock watching the clock more than he watched the screen, and watching the IPhone even more than he watched the clock. The hideous, inevitable routine of his eye movements was beginning to make him nauseous.

That was before, however, the mobile buzzed; a small 'ping' alerting him to the fact the bomber had sent him a message.  
><em>I suppose you thought I didn't notice you using your power to chat to Johnny-boy during your little fight with my Golem, did you? Well, I did, Sherlock. You're such a naughty boy! Let's find out exactly how much you'll risk for him – and exactly how much Semtex his healing can take – shall we? <em>

Sherlock's breath caught in a curtailed gasp, his eyes widening suddenly and his eyebrows pinching together in anguish and sudden urgent worry. He sprang up immediately from the sofa, and bolted out of the door, his long legs bowling over one another, fighting to be in front, to carry him faster down the stairs, further, closer –

To what? John had left the house ten minutes ago, maybe more; the chances of Sherlock finding him were slim-to-none, but he ran anyway, out of the front door and stumbled out onto the street.

It was getting dark, and people were hurrying home to be with families, husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers – but not a single one was John. He clenched his jaw in a conceited effort to remain calm, and to spot, if not John, any sign that he may be being watched. The flat across the street that had succeeded in blowing out one of their windows was still burnt and blackened, and in no state for hiding a covert gang, or a master criminal.

There were no signs. He couldn't scan the area for chatter; he couldn't deduce, or even hazard a _guess_ at where John had gone, if he had no evidence to go on. This was presuming he'd actually been kidnapped, and that Moriarty wasn't just bluffing. But – no . . . No, there was evidence.

There, on the floor: a present wrapped up for him – or it may as well have been. He dropped to examine it with his ever-at-hand pocket magnifier, disregarding the strange looks he was receiving from passers-by.

Blood. A single blackish drop, but it was enough, because he knew it was John's. A glove lay on the floor: he recalled the doctor pulling on the first as he left, and he supposed he hadn't even had time to pull the other on fully before he was accosted. It was John's, alright, he knew as he picked it up solemnly.

He stalked back into the house, cradling the single glove, and approached the IPhone with a disgusted, resentful look at the device. It had come to embody all he hated about the mass-murderer, the terrorist, the criminal mastermind – Sherlock's _equal_.

He quickly text back, fleetingly wondering if he could track the number, but quickly realising it would probably be a pay-as-you-go disposable phone; that anyway, it would be too dangerous to do so. For John's sake. The man was a healer, yes . . . But he still experienced pain. He blanched at the thought, as he doggedly typed his reply:

_What do you want me to do? – SH. _

_Meet me at the pool where Carl died. Midnight. Consider this your fourth pip - the fifth is yet to come. – JM xxx_

_What can I do now_, he thought to himself with a pang of desperation and faint nausea, _but wait? _He answered his own question with the genius-level intelligence and logic that he was growing to despise at moments like this; he despised it because it gave him a cold, factual answer that he didn't want to hear:  
><em>I can sit and wonder about the things Moriarty will do to John.<br>I can sit and wonder how long my friend can last. _

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><p><strong><em>AN: I can hear the cries of 'YOU'RE SUCH A TROLL' from here. Sort of. Anyway, sorry about the cliffhanger ending, but I like them :P Please, let me know your thoughts! - B. <em>**


	10. The Offer

_**AN: Yes, it's the final chapter! I have been spurred into action by **_**irish gal 2****_'s lovely review, and though I've had it half-finished-but-I'm-not-sure-if-I-like-how-it-ends-and-is-that-too-cheesy-or-does-this-even-make-sense for a while now, that review gave me the kick up the arse I needed! Lazy, laaaaazy B._**

**_Also I've been writing a cheeky bit of angsty AU on the side - it's an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fic called 'Stranger' and it's currently four chapters in._**

**_So, enjoy this final chapter, and let me know what you think, as always! News about the sequel at the end. - B._**

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><p>A thick, small panel of double-glazed glass was all that stood between Dr. John Watson and his friend, who inhabited the pool room, begging that his friend be returned in the most forceful tones he could muster.<p>

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock Holmes inquired to the dark galleries above, his arms at his side, as he span slowly around, surveying the gallery above where he stood in the vain hope that he would see a face through the inky blackness. "You asked me here – I've done my bit. Where are you?" He called out, his face as steely and his eyes silver, as if he were totally constructed from metal – malleable, and breakable, but strong. John thought he was strong, anyway.

He hoped he was, or he wouldn't be able to stoically cope with what was about to happen.

John's legs carried him reluctantly through the door, his shoes making echoing clicking noises on the tiles, like the ticking of a clock counting down. It was hideous to even walk, but not as hideous as to see; to see Sherlock's face when he saw that the man who had brought him here – his nemesis – was apparently his best friend.

John stared ardently; he would have gaped in surprise, if only he could have. Sherlock's face twisted into a sad expression: anger, ruined hope, betrayal, and hurt scrawled their ugly signatures across his features in an instant. His mouth turned down at the corners, open slightly with the knowledge that he should say something, but ignorance of what exactly he _could_ say. His eyebrows rose, and arched together slightly, displaying his inner turmoil and anguish.

John observed that, for a moment, he appeared to be shaking . . . But then it was gone. The whole expression of weakness was obliterated, and his face was the Holmesian alloy it usually was – even stronger, more hardened than usual, in the face of the perceived betrayal.

John wanted to be sick. He wanted to run to Sherlock, and simultaneously run away. He wanted to scream, and beg, and plead. He didn't feel much like a soldier, weighed down by the many pounds of Semtex adorning the vest he'd put on seemingly willingly.

John felt himself smiling.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" His mouth said, his tongue wrapping gleefully around the syllables, eager to say the treacherous words.  
>"Doctor Watson," Sherlock acknowledged, and it broke John's heart that he'd been downgraded from his previous level of familiarity to this, this . . . <em>Ignominy<em>, just like that.  
>"Bet you didn't see this coming," John's face smiled, and he removed his hands from his pockets. "What would you like me to say next?"<p>

He unzipped the parka he was wearing, and saw Sherlock's eyes widen as a sniper site settled on the bomb he'd just revealed to the consulting detective. He saw the man consider what to say; saw the bulky shape of his own Browning in his pocket, and drew his own conclusions.

He drew the gun, and aimed in squarely at John's head. His eyes narrowed, and he took aim, as John continued to smirk, his facial muscles twitching in glee.

John paid close attention to what he was now saying, though he hated every word of it; it pained him as much as the physical torture he'd endured so far today:  
>"You didn't think I'd every do anything like this, did you? <em>Stupid Doctor Watson, he'll follow me around forever, like a worthless dog, always at my beck and call<em> . . . How does it feel to be wrong, Sherlock?"  
>"What do you want, Watson?" Sherlock asked, bringing his second hand up to support the first with his demand.<br>"To stop you. Stop your heart – you see, if this bomb goes off, I'll live. I'll be in pieces, but I'll survive, and I'll have one of my men up there collect the pieces of my body and bring me back. You, however – you're not getting out of this one, Sherlock," He spat.

That was the final straw: if John could do anything to get out of this, he would. He just hoped Sherlock would notice what he was doing, and understand. He deliberately began to blink: a methodical pattern – Morse code. The most commonly used, well-known phrase he could manage, so that Sherlock couldn't miss it, under normal circumstances. John prayed that he hadn't deleted any information about Morse code from his hard drive.

There was a long pause. John hoped it was working, but he couldn't be sure, as Sherlock's furtive glances at his face were short-lived. It was almost as if he couldn't bring himself to look John in the eye, which worked against the former soldier's plan spectacularly . . . But there was always a chance.

. . . Yes! Sherlock finally summoned the strength to stare into John's eyes, as he had at the observatory, and John made sure he got a whole repeat pattern done in the small amount of time they connected eyes.

_Please, Sherlock. Please realise that it isn't me. He's going to get away with it. Please, Sherlock . . ._

. . . SOS . . .

. . . John, are you . . . Is that – an SOS?  
><em>Yes!<br>_You're being controlled.  
>Yes, Sherlock – I'm so sorry, I should have been more careful -<br>Not your fault. Stick to the plan, and I'll try and get him out of your head.

With that, the sleuth began to look visibly distracted, at least to John, who was looking intently for signs that he was going to give them away. In reality, he reasoned, the occasional twitch of an eyebrow with concentration both on the conversation and the mental navigation was probably not easily noticed.

"Oh, really? . . . Well, if I'm not getting out of here alive . . ." Sherlock replied calmly, suddenly connecting with the right mind, just in time.

_Then why don't you come out and face me yourself?_

"Oh, good! Very good!" Cried an Irish voice from behind John, whose eyes desperately tried to turn all the way round in his head in the vain hope of trying to see the man who had captured and was now controlling him.  
>"Leave him out of it – he's insignificant," Sherlock indicated his blogger with his head, swivelling to aim the Browning at the man who had just entered the room.<br>"Insignificant? . . . Then why are you so concerned? You should have seen your face, Sherlock," He laughed, pretending to wipe away a tear of jubilation.  
>"Let him go, then we talk," Sherlock demanded.<br>"Don't be silly. Someone else is controlling him," The Irishman told him, tilting his head to the side. Sherlock noticed that his hands were in his pockets; he looked carless, almost as if he didn't really care what happened next. "Jim Moriarty, since you _didn't _ask – who knew that taking your pet away would make you so _tetchy_?" Asked Moriarty in mock-annoyance, sidling up top Sherlock. "But seriously, Sherlock – you don't recognise me? . . . I came and visited you . . . When you were feeling a bit poorly," He made an exaggerated unhappy face, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

He looked down at the shorter man's face, but still, he didn't recognise him.

"I made such a fleeting impression, didn't I?" Moriarty considered in a silky tone of voice, as he drew nearer.  
>"Perhaps if you'd wanted my full attention," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, "You wouldn't have made me sick,"<br>"Oh no, no no! That was the point, you see! I didn't want you to suffer, and not be there to see it! – I knew you'd test it out, Sherlock. Test to see if I was being serious, and what I could do to you if you went against my orders. Looks like curiosity killed the cat this time, didn't it?"  
>"So is that it, then? You sense when others are using their powers? . . . Or you make people sick, like at the hospital? Or you send false thoughts into my head, like when-"<br>"Like when you thought Doctor Watson wanted to jump you? Yes, that one was _particularly _funny – I mean, they _all _were, but that kiss – hilarious! I'll treasure the CCTV footage forever,"  
>"What's your p<em>ower?<em>" Sherlock insisted loudly. The pauses between the words were filled with impotent rage, which only intensified with Moriarty's antagonistic smirk.  
>"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty muttered, leaning in to whisper into his ear with a malicious smile, "One of these days I'll tell you, Sherlock . . . But not today,"<p>

He quickly turned around, and snapped his fingers. John perceptibly relaxed, his face falling from the perpetually sinister expression he'd worn as a puppet to the expression of worry and anger and _fear_ he'd been forced to hide all this time.

John?

Sherlock called out quietly to his friend, trying to see whether his mind had been damaged by whoever had been controlling him, but all he saw was relief and fear: oxymoronically opposed feelings, simultaneously felt by the doctor, as he moved his gaze between the detective and the criminal.

I'm fine. Stop him.

"How can you be so sure you'll survive today? – What if I were to shoot you now?" Sherlock asked the criminal, who turned around with an amused glint in his dead eyes.  
>"Then you'd get to treasure my look of surprise," He paused, turning around sharply like a model at the end of a catwalk. He misshaped his face so that his eyes were two shining chasms, and his mouth a third, but darker; infinitely dark . . . "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would, because you secretly loved it, didn't you? . . . The game? Despite the rules, and the humiliation, and how very <em>naughty<em> I was being – it was built for you. And you loved it,"  
>"But what was the <em>point<em>?" Sherlock asked, anguish momentarily claiming his face, as his complete bafflement of why Moriarty would even target him in such a way overcame his bravado.  
>"To get your attention . . . And warn you,"<br>"Against what?"  
>"Let me finish! – So impatient!" Moriarty tutted, and Sherlock shifted where he stood, completely uncomfortable by now, and looking to John every few seconds.<br>"I'm going to make you an offer, Sherlock,"  
>Sherlock snorted: "What, an offer I can't refuse?" He asked sarcastically, exploiting one of the only pieces of pop culture he had stored in his hard drive. John raised his eyebrows for a minute.<br>"Mmm, something like that . . . Join me," Jim offered, one eyebrow raising; a boast, if ever Sherlock's wide eyes had seen one.  
>". . . Why on Earth-" He began, but was cut off.<br>"Because you get bored. Don't you? Very, _very_ bored, in your boring life, with your boring _friends_," Jim spat the last word, as if the word itself were poisonous, his eyes narrowing and flicking to John. "Come and play the game, Sherlock. We can play it _forever_ . . ."

Sherlock stood, completely rigid, his mouth opening and closing, wondering what to make of the offer. He found himself tempted, despite all the awful things the man and his organisation had done, just to investigate, to just, to _see _what it was like . . . From the other side . . .

Sherlock, you're better than that. You don't have to do anything like that.

Sherlock's eyes shot to John, whose head was shaking from side to side slowly. His eyes were sad, not angry. Sherlock cursed himself internally for even _considering_ the offer; for disappointing his blogger. He'd been kidnapped by Moriarty, and probably beaten or tortured, too, and now Sherlock was considering working for the man. He wasn't an expert, but he was pretty sure friendship didn't work like that.

"People have died," Sherlock pointed out to the criminal mastermind, by way of an answer.  
>"That's what people <em>do!<em>" Moriarty all but screamed, anger flaring up in his black-hole eyes. Both Sherlock and John flinched, the former almost accidentally squeezing the trigger in the process. He thought, bitterly, that John would never have made such a rookie error, if he were the one holding the firearm.

". . . And if I don't?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking at the floor. "What if I don't join you? What happened then? To me, and – and John?" He asked, tentatively.

Anger washed in a second from formerly-furious eyes, as Moriarty stroked his chin in mock-consideration.  
>"Well, Sherlock, I said I'd give you a warning, too – but you've already had one of those, haven't you?"<br>"What do you mean?"  
>". . . Andrew West? – Care to enlighten John about what it means when Mycroft offers you the <em>Andrew West<em> case?"  
>"How did you-" Sherlock spluttered.<br>"I have a team of super-powered criminals, Sherlock. Though we don't have a mind reader – _yet_ – we certainly have a lot of thugs," Explained the consulting criminal.

Sherlock sighed, and dragged his eyes up to meet John's inquisitive gaze.  
>"A long time ago, when I first began working as a consulting detective , Mycroft worried that I would endanger myself, so . . . We agreed that whenever he <em>foresaw<em> that I would be in a situation where I could potentially die, he would offer me an ersatz case – Andrew West isn't a murder victim, John. It's code, for _you might die_," Sherlock explained in a low, quiet voice, and broke eye contact.  
>"-Warning enough, don't you think?" Moriarty said,<p>

John paused for a moment, before frowning and trying to once again initiate eye contact with Sherlock; the sleuth appeared too ashamed to look at him anymore, or too distracted with his _decision_.

So . . . You continued with the case . . . You came here, even though you thought you might die?  
>. . . He had <em>you<em>, John. What was I supposed to do?

"Ooh, are you having one of your little conversations?" Moriarty asked with a gleeful expression; it immediately dropped, replaced by the angry one of earlier, temperamentally changing on a knife edge, as he told them in a hollow, deathly voice: "That means you've broken the rules,"

John gasped, and immediately Sherlock knew something was wrong. He looked down, and sure enough, he had a sniper site to match his friend's, emblazoned on his chest. Slowly, creeping, it moved silently to his head. He lowered his gun, and looked up, as if he thought he could see the dreadful thing from that angle.

"So, what's it going to be, Sherlock? Are you going to come with me, or are you going to stay and get killed?"

There was no choice in it; none at all. When he looked at John, and saw his minute shake of the head, his decision was made for him. How could he say yes, after all the time his blogger had saved his life? After all the times he'd killed for him?

But then how could he say no? He'd witnessed all the horrible things Moriarty could do to him if he chose to disobey: the criminal's sinister countenance communicated that they were mere child's play, compared to what he would do this time around. But death was final, and it would certainly be quick, by gun or by bomb. John would live on – he had more than a little faith in the doctor, when it came to catching Moriarty. He would never die in the course of his investigation, so he was the perfect man for the job.

And that was it. He resigned himself:  
>"I refuse. I will never work for you, but I will catch you. And if you kill me now, John will hunt you down. Either way, we'll stop you . . . So if you're going to kill me, do it now,"<p>

The face of the criminal because wholly unreadable. With interest, he tilted his head to the side, and focussed on the gun still in Sherlock's weakened hand. His eyes flicked up to the sleuth's, and saw that they were shut in anticipation.

So, slowly, he smiled.  
>"Mmm . . . No,"<p>

Sherlock lifted his head, and opened his eyes in pure surprise.  
>"No, no! Too obvious . . . You deserve something else – something <em>worse<em>," Moriarty turned around, and began to walk casually out of the room, sidling as if he were taking a stroll through the countryside. He reached the door, without saying anything else, until he finally turned around, allowing his eyes to linger on Sherlock, and then to John, and back to Sherlock again:  
>"Sherlock Holmes . . . I will burn you . . . I will burn, the <em>heart<em> out of you,"  
>"The fifth pip?" Sherlock called, with a frown.<br>"Oh, it's coming, Sherlock . . . You'll be hearing from me again, very soon . . . But right now?"

He paused dramatically, just before he disappeared, along with his snipers and henchmen, in the blink of an eye; teleported out, Sherlock's experience told him, while John remained simply baffled.

However, the criminal mastermind left them with one parting sentiment:  
>". . . I've got to see a man about a dog,"<p>

He winked, and was gone, far away in darkness and distance.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Ta-daaa! Right, then. About the sequel. Until the 29th May, I have exams to revise for and sit, so I shan't be starting on the EPIC <em>****Hound****_ AU until then, aside from perhaps a prolgue but I can't promise anything more. Thanks for your understanding._**

**_I may update this to tell you when the sequel's been put up, or you can put me on author alert._**

**_Once again, thanks for being so faithful and reading this! It's been a lot of fun to write, so far._**

**_Cheers! R&R - B._**

**_P.s. The final part of this series - a collection of oneshots from different characters offering their perspective on this universe's version of 'The Reichenbach Fall' - is now available on my profile, under the name 'The End'. Thanks for sticking with the series! _**


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